The Circles: Book 2: Journey of Sorrow
by Angmar's Elfhild
Summary: By Angmar and Elfhild. When Gondor loses the War of the Ring, Rohan is attacked by the forces of Mordor, and many of the peasants of the Eastfold are taken as captives. Twin sisters Elfhild and Elffled struggle to remain defiant against their foes, but each step of the journey takes them closer to Mordor. Is there any hope of escape, or is slavery to be their doom?
1. So White the Simbelmynë

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**__ In Book One, "The Triumph of the Shadow," the Witch-king of Angmar survived the Battle of Pelennor Fields, and Sauron regained the One Ring. With the armies of Gondor and Rohan locked in combat in the South, the northern wing of the Mordorian army launched an attack on Rohan. Many of the Rohirric civilians who had not already fled to safer areas were captured by uruk raiding parties. Two of these captives were twin sisters Elfhild and Elffled, peasant girls from the Eastfold. After a major victory at Dol Amroth which sent the southern wing of the Mordorian army fleeing, it was determined by the commanders of the West that a large force of men could be spared to march to the defense of Rohan. This host of Gondorians and Rohirrim clashed with the forces of Mordor at the Second Battle of Helm's Deep, which was a victory for Rohan. As the summer wore on, the northern army of Mordor was slowly beaten back to the Firien Wood, and the Mering Stream became the boundary between Rohan and the Mordor-occupied northeastern half of Gondor. Yet all hope of rescue was lost for the Rohirric civilians who had been captured in the war, for by this time they were far behind enemy lines. The captives have just arrived at the ruined city of Minas Tirith, which is now occupied by Haradrim._

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

_Pelennor Fields, June 15, year 3019 of the Third Age under the Sun_

As the sun rose that morning, worn shoes thudded upon the battle-scarred ground, weary feet traveling upon the same path that had once been battered by the thundering hooves of galloping horses. So at last, on the 15th of June, the very day of that ill-fated battle three months prior, the captives came to the fields of Pelennor.

Though neither the captives nor their captors knew aught of it, another battle had been fought just the day before. Beyond all hope, the West had triumphed over the hordes of Mordor in fighting bloody and grim beneath the peaks of the Thrihyrne. It was the Second Battle of Helm's Deep, and after bitter retreat from the South, the Riders of Rohan and the men of Gondor had won glorious victory in the Deeping Coomb. To the dismay of the enemy and the answered prayers of the men of the West, a great force of Elvish warriors journeyed from the fair lands of the North and rode with the Riders of Rohan when they assailed the host of Mordor. Thus the battle was won, the day was saved, and the bruised head of the dark serpent drew back ere it ever could northward into Eriador.

Yet in Gondor, the plight of the captives was indeed a dismal one as they headed south towards the now conquered and occupied Minas Tirith. That morning, the orcs and Easterlings had broken their camp near the ruins of Forannest, the north-gate of the Rammas Echor, where they had spent the night before. Now the captives marched towards the sad White City which lay ten miles thither. No one would come to save them - not the Riders of Rohan, the Army of Gondor or the host of the Elves - and there would be no escape from the evil days that lay before them. Their fate was now held in the hands of Mordor, a land ruled by a cruel and merciless Master.

The ground was damp in places from the rain which had fallen the day before, but most of the water had been absorbed by the thirsting earth. Still wide cracks rent the ground, like gaping mouths begging for another drink so that their thirst could finally be slaked. After three months of darkness, the sun at last shone freely, but the land before them was desolate and the restored light brought neither hope nor cheer.

The stench of death still lingered in the heavy air which had once been filled with the sweet scents of flowers and freshly mown hay. Once green earth was now pocked from the scars of thousands of hammering feet and hooves, and deep ruts caused by the wheels of heavily laden wains were riven into the barren ground. Rubble was everywhere and the remains of brunt houses, broken siege towers and ruined wains were scattered all across the bleak landscape.

Far to the east, the dark peaks of the Mountains of Shadow, the impregnable walls of Mordor, were vague shadows of gloom upon the distant horizon. Burnt field and battered hill fell in sorrowful slopes towards the River Anduin. A land which had once been green and filled with plenty had been ravished and defiled. Gone were the town lands and homesteads, felled had been the orchards which once bloomed in the spring and bore fruit in the autumn. Even if some brave plant or thorn had dared to take root in the fire and battle-scorched ground, it would have quickly withered and died for want of light and water during the months of darkness. Many of the streams had gone dry in the drought but now at last after the rain of the day before, a trickle of clean water flowed through parched channels once again.

Rising out of the plain before the column lay the bony wreckage of some enormous giant. Strips of weathered hide dangled down between the ruined framework of its body. Atop the massive rib cage perched a carrion-bird preening its feathers. The stench was still intolerable, though the bird seemed unmindful of the reek. Many of the captives almost gagged at the lingering smell of death all about them, and wished that their hands were not bound so that they could hold the fabric of their garments over their noses.

The bird squawked at the column and flew into the air. Joined by his comrades which had been feasting in the depths of the moldering carrion, they screeched their objections at being disturbed. Swirling in the sky above the fallen corpse, they returned to land upon the points of the rib bones, glaring at the column as it passed. Flies, guests that knew the feeding was drawing to a close, buzzed angrily as some of the birds flew downward, returning to argue over the remaining leftovers of the grand feast.

Captain Zgurpu looked grimly at the skeleton and spoke with a low, almost reverent tone in his hushed voice, "The crop of death was so vast that the harvesters could not gather it all." He ordered the band to increase the pace of their march.

"The lads who took the field had the pick of the meat but I daresay there was too much flesh even for them," laughed Sergeant Glokal. "Now the carrion-birds gather the last of the crop, but there'll be a fresh one for them to reap in the North. Plenty of meat for orc, bird and beast!"

Some holding the sleeves of their tunics over their noses, the cavalry troop and their sergeant rode a distance away in front of the orc companies. All were glad that this troublesome duty would soon be over, and both the troop of horsemen and the orcs could head back to Rohan. All would miss the company of fair captives, and though only words, devilish winks and shy glances had passed between them, impetuous promises never meant to be kept had been exchanged between the troopers and the captives.

"Glokal, keep your voice down. It wouldn't do for the Easterlings to hear such talk," worried the captain. "They burnt all of theirs that they could find."

"That they could find," the sergeant whispered, "but they didn't find them all." His grin was wide, showing the gaping spaces where some of his fangs had been knocked out and the snags where others had been broken. "I might say, sir, that they did not have nearly as much lard on them as the strawheads, but there's some as like stringy meat. Say eating such makes 'em stronger. But give me the fat meat any day, streaked with lots of blood!"

"Don't let them hear you say that! No point in irritating them. So far, they have not been too overbearing this time. You know what unholy tempers the Southrons and Easterlings have. They'd as soon cut your gizzard out as look at you! The cavalry will be riding with us on the return, and if you want to keep your head on your shoulders, you'll mind your manners around them! We'll be back in the North soon enough anyway and there's feasting on the flesh of man and horse ahead for us!" the captain exclaimed gleefully.

"No doubt, the lads up there have already won all the battles and there will be few spoils for us," lamented the sergeant.

"Sergeant, the Northern campaign will take longer than you might think before we triumph. There's going to be plenty more in store for us there. Who knows what delicacies we might find, both to please the pallet and the flesh... maybe even some stout, lusty wenches to take back to the dens."

"Ay', but right now these carrion-birds are giving me the creeps. Glad it's not my bones they're picking!" The sergeant shuddered as he looked up at the large black raven which glared at him from its perch upon a whitened hip bone.

Here and there across the fields, the great hulking skeletons of more mûmakil rose in stark relief against the rolling ground. They lay like ships which had been beached upon a dismal shore, battered and driven by a storm so violent that the ships had floundered before the cruel winds. Some stark white frames stood almost erect, listing only slightly, making a sharp contrast to the others who lay adrift upon the ground on their sides. Their bony spines rose into the air, great tusks extended from mighty heads now bellowing a cry unheard. They seemed to march in silent review, moving to a destination which they neither knew nor understood, but still going forward, plodding in their brute strength, summoned at their Master's call and doing His bidding. The dead cavalry of the mûmakil fought now in silent repose, still moving out to face an enemy who, like them, had been turned to bone.

Silent sentinels now, their great forms marked the path upon which the orc captain led the column. Few were his words as he urged them on, lost in his own quiet reverie. His men's mood matched his own, and little was heard save the distant croaking and calling of the carrion-birds as they reveled in the last meals of their fallen prey.

Even the sound of plodding iron boots, flails falling on slow-moving legs and clomping of horses' hooves seemed to fade into a strange, muffled silence. Though the sun shone brightly, the field seemed cold and gray, as though it were locked in an eternal winter. The mûmakil watched through empty eye sockets, caverns of black upon white hills.

All of worth had long since been pilfered from the bodies of the dead. Now only plowed rubbish remained of once great shields, valiant helms and armor, strong swords, proud spears, arrow tips that once flew - whether hitting their mark or missing none could say - and nothing was left of a great host save a few fragments, scattered here and there like lifeless petals of death flowers strewn by a careless hand.

On the column marched, their quiet cadence out of harmony with the cries of the death birds which grew ever more distant. Skeletal hands with no arms seemed to beckon them forward, groping as though searching for some reason, some meaning, as to why they had been ripped so callously from the arms that once had borne them. Skeletons of horses, some with their bones poised as though in some gristly gallop, rushed ever onward into a battle now lost, their riders' cries of war hushed in death.

On they marched through the grim fields of decay, the reapers of the havoc now mixed with the crop. Both bone and skull of man and orc lay atop one another, and stripped of the flesh scarce little difference could be noted between the two - bone upon bone, thigh upon thigh, shank upon shank, arm bone, knee joint, ribs and collar bones, foot and ankle, hand, arm and finger - all tramped by death into the same vintage.

The column seemed to slow its pace, held suspended, the dead and the living in lock-step together, listening to some herald, a silent tune played on drum, horn and pipe whose sound had long been stilled. One foot down, one foot forward, then another, and on to the next. Living and dead both marched to a slow dance of death.

Before them now lay a broad avenue, marked at its borders by a line of poles, each mounted with its own skull who smiled a grim greeting to the column - captor and captive alike. The lifeless heads grinned down upon them in a sure knowledge that soon the one would be like the other. The sepulchral mouths pronounced a silent benediction - "As I am now, so shall ye be."

Some of the skulls had inscribed upon their foreheads rude etchings, while others had dull red paint to mark the eye sockets. Here and there a proud Rohirric helm, crushed and battered, crowned the brow of a skull. Under each grinning head the poles were festooned by streamers of braided horse manes and tails adorned with dangling lines of knuckle bones held together by hair the color of straw.

Elfhild stared in horror at the skulls, some morbid fascination holding her mind in its clutch, and she gawked at the ghastly markers, unable to look away. Once those empty eye sockets had been covered with flesh and held blue eyes which had flashed in anger or twinkled merrily or shed tears of mourning. Did they sorrow even now for the living? Did their shades wander in loneliness through the night, singing songs of lamentation, the spectral keening of the brokenhearted ones who lingered behind?

She wondered how each one had died. Had their heads been cruelly severed in the heat of the battle or had they fallen by other means: the spear through the heart, the gash of the sword, the piercing blow of the arrow? Had they languished in agony, pierced by mortal blows? Had they suffered, or had the end come mercifully quick? How does one count the measure of suffering? Did the enemy laugh at the moans and shrieks of the wounded as they futilely tried to crawl away? Had the orcs pilfered the forms of the fallen, eaten the cooling flesh of the dead - or even worse, the still throbbing muscles and sinews of the wounded - and then finally turned their wicked hands to making vile markers out of the heads of brave Riders? Elfhild shuddered at these macabre thoughts.

The captives solemnly shuffled by the two rows of columns as though in a belated funeral march, almost hesitant to leave the gristly sights of death behind them. Could living hands offer comfort to the slain? Could they hear the wails of the mourning? Could still hearts feel the throbbing of those who were still alive?

The lifeless gaze of one skull in particular seemed to grasp at Elfhild's heart, causing her breath to catch in her throat. A silent exchange passed between living and dead, and she reeled from the sudden knowledge. In that moment, she knew that she now beheld her father, as though his skull itself had spoken to her. Perhaps it had...

"No..." she whispered, but the sagacity held within the shadowy pools of that head now barren of flesh could not be denied. The bitter truth unfolded itself before her as a scroll inscribed with bold black letters of cruel veracity by the heavy hand of merciless doom, and her heart read clearly what was written there.

"Father," she whimpered. "Father? Eadfrid?"

There was a certainty that they knew that she was here. She longed to reach out for them, to join them and to comfort them in the lonely silence of the slain.

"Keep marching!" an orc snarled.

"Can you not let us mourn!" Goldwyn's beautiful voice rang out harsh and savage, like a discordant note in an otherwise lovely song.

"Damn whores, keep moving!" the orc cursed as he brought the flail down across the backs of her legs. Their heads turning to look backward, the widows and orphans stumbled on as they began to chant a low keen of mourning.

"They are dead... all dead," Elfhild whispered to her sister beside her. She closed her eyes tightly, forcing tears to spring forth from crystal pools held by her lashes.

Elffled nodded gravely. No further explanation was needed. She knew exactly of whom her sister spoke: their father Eadbald and brother Eadfrid. Yet she wept not, for how can ice caught in the darkest depths of winter melt into cascading waterfalls? Cold she was, numb and nerveless, the icy chill of incomprehensible sorrow curling itself about her heart like a billowing wind of snow and frost.

"Our hearts are broken and so they will remain unchanged until death take my sister and myself and mayhap then we find peace. Orphaned, homeless, slaves," Elffled thought despairingly, "the tale of our years shall end in sorrow and woe and evil will be all our days." She cast a furtive glance back at the skulls. "Perhaps they are the fortunate ones, for they are beyond pain. Perhaps they mourn for us, for we are yet alive. Though they lay not in hallowed mounds and the enemy flaunts their earthly memories as tokens of defeat, at least thralldom and bondage shall never be their fate." Darkness clouded Elffled's mind and she stumbled forward with the rest, blind beggars lost in a storm of unending gloom.

A triumphant march, a processional parade welcomed by the smiling faces of death, footsteps falling silently, heralded by the lines of poles - the column marched on.

At last they came to the end of the procession route. The path led on around a small bend and there awaited a stark, a pale mound flanked by two smaller knolls. Vast quantities of bones of horse and man all lay piled together, white mounds of strange simbelmynë.

The cavalry troop had halted at the base of the large mound and the orc captain gave the order to his men and the captives to stop. The captives, too numb by the stark terror of the sights which they had beheld, had shuddered when the realization had befallen them that this must be all now that remained of those fathers, husbands, sons, brothers and kin that they had so proudly bade farewell but a few short months before. Many wept openly while others muttered disbelieving whispers. The children cried and the little ones clung to their mothers' skirts.

Sergeant Utana turned aside from the mound as his troopers went on. He rode his horse down the line of prisoners and spoke to them soft words in Common Speech. Those who could not hear his words wondered what he had said and thought dark thoughts that he was gloating and boasting of the great havoc that his people had helped to bring.

When he drew near the space of Elfhild and Elffled's troop, he halted his horse again and looked above their heads. As he spoke, his face took on the features of a prophet who had been divinely blessed, and his words rained down upon the captives like judgment.

"Your group is the first among many Rohirrim slaves yet to come to behold the sight of this field. Perhaps you had wondered why during the twenty-two days of your captivity that no one had revealed what had happened at Pelennor. It was decided some time ago that the answer to all your questions about the battle and the fates of your families would be given here as a warning to you of the high price of resistance against a righteous force. You know without my saying who were the owners of these bones. Thus it will always be when usurpers and their allies attempt to resist the realm of the rightful King of Men and Lord of Middle-earth!

"Your men made a most grievous mistake when they set the course to help their allies and to wage a war they could not hope to win. At least now, wherever their spirits might have fled, they are probably free and enlightened as to the follies of their ways. While I am most proud of the great victory achieved here three months ago today upon the 15th of March, I do offer my condolences to you, their widows, sisters, daughters and kin. There is little I can say to you other than this: you may rest with the knowledge in your hearts that your children will be born in a land that has been brought into the light and know that the only true way to peace comes through the wisdom and power of the Great Master Whom you have called, up to now, 'The Enemy.' Now you will learn the way of discipline and call Him by the title He so rightfully deserves: 'Master!' May the fruits of your wombs be bountiful, blessed by the seed of superior races!"

From the midst of the low dirge that the women were chanting, Goldwyn's clear voice rang out. "You are all the filth of dogs!"

"Gag her and any more who dare interrupt me!" Sergeant Utana shouted, furious that any had dared challenge his words.

When the woman had been silenced, the sergeant looked up and down the line of captives to see what other reactions which his words had brought. Reading only sadness, disbelief and anger upon their faces, he resumed speaking. "Though you do not realize it now, a great honor has been paid to all of you. You could just as well have been slain where you were, or turned over to the troops for their sport, but our Master desires rule and order. Therefore for the benefit and protection of His subjects, in His omniscient knowledge, He has laid down wise laws for the governing of all; therefore, according to His designs and wisdom, you have all been spared that.

"Though some of you can look forward to a future as mothers of the new, stronger race of uruk-hai, others shall be the concubines of your conquerors. I am pleased to tell you, though, that a few of you have a far more glorious fate in store. Those who are chosen will be ushered into a state of blissfulness and radiance to which few mortals could ever hope to aspire. You will be the consorts of the Dark Gods!" He smiled benignly upon them. "In all things, learn to rely upon the benevolent graciousness of your Great Master!" The sergeant's eyes gleamed in a kapurdri-induced trance.

"I doubt that further words will ever pass between us, for after you are taken to the City, we must go north to help finish the fight that was begun here. Farewell," Sergeant Utana bade them as he turned his horse and rode past the orc companies back to the head of the column. Then he and his troopers trotted out of their lives and rode towards Minas Tirith.

"March!" Captain Zgurpu gave the grating order. The company moved forward, their eyes straight ahead as they skirted the great heap and passed between the larger and the smaller of the piles. Women softly moaned and children whimpered, their hearts stricken by the blackest of grief. Pale rising clumps of spectral white and gray, unhearing, unseeing witnesses of the life that went by them, the withered mounds did not mark the coming and going of any.

The ground steadily rose before the column in an a gentle incline and the bones and fragments of war became fewer and fewer. At last before the prisoners lay a broad expanse of cleared ground. The whole mass of orcs and prisoners breathed a great sigh of relief. The captain's shoulders relaxed almost unperceptively, although his sergeant was quick to catch the movement.

"Garn!" Captain Zgurpu exclaimed, almost merry. "That was a royal feast for the lads after the battle, and now there ain't nothing more than a dry bone upon which to gnaw." In truth, he had been filled with fear at the sight of the bones of so many of his kind. An officer never showed weakness before his men, though, for they could turn on him in an instant and rip him into pieces.

Now freed of an unseen yoke, the marching feet increased their tempo. "Won't be long now," the captain called over his shoulder, "'til we're free of the wenches and their squalling brats! And, lads, it'll be a bit of rest for us! You can be sure that the draught'll be flowing freely to celebrate these prizes that we've brought! In the City, we'll turn our charges over to others and after a night's rest, we'll be on our way back to battle and they'll be on their way to their masters' beds."

He laughed and the lads behind him cheered, some raising their spears in gusto at his words.

The spell of silence now broken, the captives slowly began to feel once again, to let coursing thoughts of white, grim starkness coil themselves about their minds. They were just beginning to fathom a small measure what they had just seen. Some were in denial and would not think about what they had beheld, pushing the thoughts back to dark corners of their minds. Others let the full, harsh horror envelop their souls in a crushing vice of despair. Every bone, every skull, every broken shard... was it the husband, the father, the brother, the uncle well beloved, the friend or lover?

The wails of sorrow clutched at the captives' throats and they were unable to give vent to their anguished screams. Only a few children sobbed, more from dread than from realization. Silence again fell and then a great moaning. It was too much to bear. Then like dark, rushing waters, piercing shrieks rent the air, crying out to whatever Powers would give heed and solace.

Death lay behind the captives. What lay before them? The dead had no answers.

So it is when glory, honor and valor die... the silent cry stilled in the throat. So brave the warrior, so white the simbelmynë, the flower of death, upon the fields of the slain.


	2. A City Lost and Dead

Chapter Written by Angmar

A languid evening breeze brought the aroma of wood smoke and the enticing odors of food cooking, an inviting scent, comforting in its promise. Far above the gentle rolling slopes, a few flickering lights burned in the White Tower of Ecthelion. The City, sacked and looted three months ago, its streets now almost deserted, had folded its hands across its chest and lay in silent repose. Where hope had once lived, there was only desolation and the reminders of death.

The City of Minas Tirith, once proud bastion of freedom, was no more. In its place was a broken ruin, a dream lost somewhere in the aging memory of the past. Now it shared the same fate of its predecessor, the bright star lost in the waves, the promise downfallen, cast down into darkness by a Foe Who could not be withstood.

"Ruin and desolation, woe to the beholder. The ground is cursed!" the carrion-birds cried.

"I wish those damn birds would shut up," muttered Sergeant Glokal. After looking at Captain Zgurpu for approval, he bent down and picked up a rock and hurled it upward at the raven.

The bird mocked him as it flew and cried in its shrill, harsh voice, "Ka! Ka! You will be bird droppings soon!"

The cavalry sergeant glanced back over his shoulder at the disturbance and decided that nothing was truly amiss. He rode on, uncaring, mildly amused at the distress of the orcs. What were they to him? Filthy brutes, misbegotten bastards of Elves!

Aching limbs carried the captives forward as the flails of the orcs kissed the backs of their weary legs. The mood of the dark brutes who shepherded them had changed from one of superstitious apprehension in the fields of the dead to one of jubilation, the journey almost done, the time of celebration ahead.

The orcs needed no encouragement from their captain to hasten their pace, for their destination lay just ahead. "Lads," Captain Zgurpu exclaimed, "see the fires burning brightly up ahead to welcome us! It'll be draught and ale and fresh meat aplenty for us all! And gold for the trove that we've brought for the Master!"

The orcs cheered and Captain Zgurpu and Sergeant Glokal smiled, if smiling it could be called, for their features, even in mirth, seemed contorted in a defused anger, and their faces leered and grimaced more than smiled.

Ahead of them lay the city of Minas Tirith, but their path did not go that way. They passed by the entrance of the City, its once great gate of iron smashed and broken by the might of Grond and the power of the Witch-king of Angmar. The wreckage of the gates of iron now lay among scattered rubble beside the posts of steel, pushed back to make way for traffic. The orcs paid no heed to the sight of wreckage cast aside, the forgotten strength of a vanquished enemy. Yet the City was not the destination for the captives.

They marched by the ruined gate and then came to a rutted lane which angled southeast from the road towards a group of colorful pavilions. In the last light of evening, the captives could see a tented city which had grown up like funguses feeding on rot. Standards and banners rose into the air, all bearing the mark of the Great Eye. Here and there were interspersed the Southron serpent flag of scarlet and black; the standard of Khand, a silver lion upon a blue field; and the heraldry of other allies of Mordor.

What had been the fields of plenty was now a canvas splendor of civilization set among the reek of the savage. Nothing more now than a way station and a symbol of military might and expansion, the land seemed to mourn the descent of all creation into a darkness even blacker than the First.

Sergeant Utana halted his men at a gaudy tent marked with a green standard. Upon it was the emblem of a sheaf of yellow wheat gripped in the iron fingers of a black metal glove, the symbol of Nurn, the Garden of the Dark God. Above it, on a higher staff, hung the symbol of the Red Eye. All about the camp, torches on poles glowed in the dusk, marking the camp into orderly rows.

The cavalry sergeant dismissed his men, and after the customary salutes, he watched them as they rode towards the Anduin. After they had watered their horses in the River, the men would tie them to picket lines while others prepared camp for the night.

As he rode by him, Sergeant Utana greeted a small, middle-aged man standing in front of the tent. The tawny-faced man's hair was graying, and while he was nondescript in appearance, his cloak and his tunic of rich green bespoke of his wealth. His feet were small, almost delicate, as was the rest of him, and they were tucked into a fine pair of brocaded slippers.

"Hail Shakh Awidan! The orcs will soon be bringing the women by. We just rode down with them on patrol duty."

"May the blessings of all the gods be upon you, good Sergeant! Would you care to share a goblet of wine?"

"No, but thanks to you. I must make my way up the hill and give my report."

"Good evening, then, sir. I trust fortune to smile favorably upon you."

"And upon you, Shakh," he touched the rim of his helm in salute.

The cavalryman turned his mount and rode back towards Minas Tirith. His one last task for the day was to report to the command headquarters stationed in the Citadel, once the pride of the Kings and Stewards of Gondor. Sergeant Utana mused to himself, "They will be surprised to see me back so quickly, but I shall not trouble them long. 'Twould be good though if an officer would offer me a goblet of wine ere I go back to the North. He will have an easy enough time sitting on such a lofty prominence while perhaps I shall die upon an unknown field."

The small man paid the Sergeant scarcely a second look as he rode away, for he had no interest in why the man was there or where he would go after he left. He was, however, eager to talk to the orc commander who had led his men behind the troopers.

With a swaggering gait and an occasional grumbling complaint from the men, the orc company moved ahead. Soon the column drew up to the tent of the small man.

"Hail, good Captain Zgurpu!" Shakh Awidan greeted him in Common Speech, his thickly accented voice somehow turning the language into a sonorous blend of East and West. "What have you brought us as the first spoils of Rohan?" He looked towards the captives. "I see that you have had a successful hunt, and a most attractive quarry it is."

"Aye, Shakh Awidan, you will be pleased with them. There are many fine wenches with firm, round breasts and buttocks this big," Captain Zgurpu replied, spreading his hands far apart for emphasis. "Ripe and ready for the picking! You will be pleased," the orc captain bragged, obviously trying to impress this important personage.

"Captain Zgurpu, I must have time to survey the bounty. As you know, I am getting too old for this business," he complained. "My joints ache and my legs have held me too long this day. Slaves!" he clapped his hands, and two brawny young men with shaved heads and slave collars about their necks came out of the tent. They wore simple gray tunics and the rude sandals of peasants upon their feet.

"Lord," they asked, bowing from the waist, "what are your wishes?"

"A folding chair and a goblet of wine," Awidan replied. "Hurry! I am a busy man and have much to attend." He sighed heavily as the two slaves went back into the tent.

"Captain Zgurpu, do you fully recognize the calibre of the slaves that I am forced to keep in my service?" he asked. "Bad days are upon us! These slaves are not fit to live! Gondorians! Wretched people when free, and even more wretched as slaves. They are incorrigible, stiff-necked, proud, arrogant and lazy!"

The orc captain laughed boisterously. "Shakh, I expect that soon you will take that out of them and have them lapping milk out of saucers like kittens!"

"Perhaps, Captain, but that is a difficult goal to attain," the man groaned as he sank into the chair that one of the slaves had brought for him. The other slave handed him a goblet of wine and then both stood in attendance behind his chair. "Indeed, these two have been most unwilling, and I doubt that their obstinateness will ever be driven fully from them... but yes, they are enduring the disciplinary training necessary." Shakh Awidan smiled robustly. "Of course, the source of their pride was removed shortly after they were captured. For some time it was not thought either would live, but they are recovering nicely."

"Do you mean, Shakh, that they have been-" Zgurpu's voice broke off in a loud guffaw.

"I daresay that some of the spirit has left them now, and I think they will be obedient."

"Were they-?" The Captain was now joined in his mirth by the laughter of Sergeant Glokal and the lads closest to them.

"Aye," nodded Shakh Awidan. "Perhaps you have heard the tales about what is done to some of the male slaves?"

"Aye!" The Captain slapped his thigh and laughed uproariously. "Then it's true?"

"I like to speak of it as their 'betterment.' They could just have easily been hung up by the heels and left as food for the maggots and carrion-birds, but I believe in mercy when mercy can be applied. All know me as a man who takes great pity for his charges and always looks out for their welfare." Shakh Awidan slowly picked a thread that was caught on his breeches. He tossed the thread aside and belched loudly.

"The meal was good," Awidan explained his gastrointestinal distress, "though I must watch everything I eat carefully. I am a frail man, you know, given to agues and infirmities and I must protect my health, guard it, lest I fall even more ill. This climate does not agree with me. Far too damp, you know."

He pushed a hand against his stomach and leaned forward, belching noisily. "The physician tells me that I should cease eating so many spicy foods. Indigestion, you know. He says it could cause the ruination of my constitution, but I refuse to eat the weak gruel my doctor has prescribed. Spices cleanse both the blood and bowels of impurities, I always say. The physician, however, has ordered me to partake only of gruel, a few bland vegetables and an occasional piece of lean meat - no fat, you understand. I am to ingest a strong purgative every few days, and this I will not do! Spiced meat does a far better task of cleansing. A man must have meat and well-flavored, or he will wane and suffer an early death. I should dismiss the man from my employ, but he is a close kinsman, and that would only cause trouble within the family!"

"Shakh, my sympathies." The orc captain was growing tired of the man's endless complaints about his health and ailments, which the orc knew were pure fabrication. "But as you were saying?"

"To satisfy your curiosity, Captain - when I first bought these two men last year, they had only recently been captured in Ithilien. They refused to obey my orders, once even trying to escape! Most dealers will not tolerate such behavior, but I, being a kind man at heart and understanding, felt that they were worth sparing. But they were most vexing!

"We tried whipping, starving them, but nothing would work and I despaired that they would ever prove to have any value at all. Then I knew the solution! Of course, they did not like the remedy. They were forced over a wooden stand, straddle-legged. My stout men held them down as one of my surgeons - one of my best - very skilled at this, I might say - with one sure stroke of the knife had them gelded clean. It was all over and the wounds cauterized almost before they knew what had happened. Well, not quite." He looked at one of the slaves. "They did cry like women for a long time."

Awidan laughed. "But then, after they were buried up to their necks in the sod, they turned placid enough and began to beg for mercy. They shall be good boys now, eunuch guards for some lord's harem, of course. A pity they were not younger - they would have made such pretty boys. Smile for the Captain, lads; show them your teeth."

The two slaves obediently opened their mouths, displaying their teeth. They smiled feebly and then looked down at the ground in shame.

"They don't seem to like it too well, Shakh," Captain Zgurpu smirked.

"See what fine strapping slaves they are. But," Awidan sighed, "they will probably all too soon have huge bellies gained from spending too much time in eating and idleness. But what can be done? They are eunuchs, good enough for the purpose that is ordained for them."

Thoroughly weary of the whole discussion and eager to receive his pay, Sergeant Glokal scratched his nose and looked down at the bone necklace that hung about his neck.

"Long ago I was awarded this proprietorship by the agents of our Master. This is a high honor for a man such as I, who is of humble birth," Awidan went on. He stretched out his slender frame in the chair, extending his legs while he drank his wine. Lounging there, he seemed in no hurry to pay the Captain the commission for the prizes.

"Slave, fetch a goblet of wine for the Captain and his Sergeant. We have matters to discuss."

"The Shakh is most generous," the Captain nodded. One of the Gondorian slaves soon brought Captain Zgurpu and Sergeant Glokal goblets of red wine.

"I would see some of these wenches closer so I may more accurately set a value upon them," Awidan continued, smiling affably.

"And perhaps sample a few of the wares, Shakh?" the orc captain laughed between great gulps of the wine.

"As you know, I must turn aside from testing the goods, for the orders are that all must remain intact. They are to be distributed as my superiors see fit. As all know, I am a man of honor and never break Rules!"

"Shakh, we will parade them before you and you will see the fine flesh which we have brought you," the Captain boasted as he walked over to stand beside the Shakh. "Sergeant, march the women before his Excellency's eyes."


	3. An Inspection

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Standing to the side, Sergeant Glokal oversaw the guards as they paraded the column of women and children before Shakh Awidan. The wily old slave trader looked the lot over carefully, his shifty eyes roving over their bodies, weighing their assets against their flaws. When he had established a rough estimate of value, he filed their approximate market prices in his brain. Occasionally, he commented to Captain Zgurpu, who usually made an obscene remark in Black Speech. Now and then, Awidan had the guards bring a slave before him for closer scrutiny. Catching sight of Elfhild and Elffled, the Shakh's eyes narrowed speculatively. He was obviously pleased and impressed with what he had seen, and all traces of frailty left him. His animated voice exclaimed, "Blonde twins with skin like flawless alabaster! Seldom are such pale, golden beauties seen in my land! Sergeant Glokal, halt the line! Bring the twin wenches over to me. I would examine them more closely."

"Aye, shakh." Sergeant Glokal motioned to one of the orc guards. "You heard him, private! Get those little beauties out of the column and over to his Excellency!" Soon the frightened girls were pushed forward by the guard. The Sergeant's rough voice barked out a stream of short, quick commands. "Smile for the shakh! Show him what fetching slave girls you are! Look pretty now!" No matter how much the orc cajoled, the sisters' expressions remained glum. Almost daunted by the sisters' apprehensive faces, Sergeant Glokal muttered a low curse in Black Speech. This pair was fighting him, but he was determined to display them to their best and show off their ample endowments. The better they looked to the Shakh, the higher the price that he and his comrades would receive for them.

"By my grandsire's hairy balls, do you call those trembling lips appealing?" Sergeant Glokal bellowed. "Curl up the corners of your mouths! Good! Good! You are trying at least! That's much better!" When the sisters forced wooden smiles, the Sergeant grinned to Shakh Awidan and Captain Zgurpu. Encouraged, he decided to push them further. "Now wiggle your arses! Swing 'em back and forth! Get some life in your movements! I'd frigging think you were dead! Come on now! Thrust up your proud knobs!" When neither obeyed the Sergeant's latter commands, he barked out to the guard, "Private, get those lazy wenches moving!"

The guard nodded and moved closer to Elfhild. "Want to smell my crotch?" he whispered as he pinched her rump. Elfhild gasped in pain. She was about to whirl around and spit in his face, but the orc pushed both her and her sister forward before she had a chance. With a cruel laugh, he stepped back to guard the sisters and prevent them from bolting.

Roughly thrust in front of the slaver, the twins felt disoriented and glanced around in confusion. Who was this man and why were they being presented to him? Did he wish to purchase them? Was he to be their master? They did not even know his name! Shifting nervously, they averted their eyes under the intensity of the Shakh's gaze and stared down at the ground.

Rising from his chair, Shakh Awidan stepped towards Elffled and looked her up and down. "Open your mouth, wench," he told her in a soothing tone that was as slick and greasy as oil. "Let me see your pearls."

"W-w-what?" she stammered. Utterly bewildered, her brain froze and she could not think. She shot a sideways glance at Elfhild, who looked back at her with eyes wide with worry.

"You do not understand Common?" he asked, scowling at her.

"Your Excellency," Captain Zgurpu interjected, "many times these peasants are too backward to understand any language other than their own." If he had his way, Zgurpu would test her knowledge of Common Speech with some salty words that would make her blush with shame. This was neither the time nor the place for that, however. The shakh would be far too offended with him if he did.

"I - I-" Elffled tried to force the words from her lips, but her teeth were chattering too much and her tongue did not want to obey.

"Glokal!" Shakh Awidan's voice grew more excited, rising in pitch as though his scrawny neck were being squeezed. "Hold her!" Clearing his throat, he tried to control his enthusiasm. If the uruks knew how pleased he was with the twins, they would demand a higher price.

"Aye, shakh," Glokal responded as he lumbered forward. When he reached Elffled, she looked at him in stunned disbelief and babbled like a frightened child, "I will be good! I will be good! Please do not hurt me!" He laughed as he wrapped a thick arm around her middle, the other hand grabbing her hair and yanking her head back. The pain was so intense that she was sure he would pull her hair out by the roots.

"I am going to die," Elffled thought wildly. She stared at Awidan, her terror rising as she felt the heat of his wine soaked breath catch her full in the face. Her heart hammering in her chest, she wanted to move, to run away, to escape, but she was frozen in terror. The orc squeezed her waist tighter, relishing the scent of fear which he smelled in her sweat. Whimpering, she closed her eyes and tried to pretend that this was not really happening.

"Foolish girl, why do you quake in fear? I will not harm you," Awidan murmured softly as he suddenly grasped her jaw and squeezed her mouth open with his thumb and fingers. Trapped in the orc's grasp with her hair twisted painfully around his thick hand, Elffled could barely move. Tears sprang to her eyes as she realized that all she could do was acquiesce to their demands. Perhaps if she remained very still, they would not hurt her. Sweat beaded up on her forehead and trickled between her breasts. She dug her knuckles into her back and clenched and unclenched her fingers fretfully.

Squinting, Awidan leaned over and peered into her mouth as he murmured soft words in an unknown language. She wondered what he had said, but then he returned to Common. "Stop twitching! I only want to look at your teeth." Elffled shut her eyes tightly and opened her mouth wide, drawing her tongue back as far as it could go. Maybe this would be over soon and they would let her return to her aunt and cousin.

"Watch her," Captain Zgurpu interrupted. "The little slut will bite your finger off!"

"No, Captain Zgurpu, I think she is learning to be a very well-mannered slave girl. Are you not, my sweet houri?" he asked as he looked back into the girl's mouth. Elffled mumbled plaintively and gazed into Awidan's dark eyes, which seemed to have softened. He ran his right forefinger over her lower teeth and then rubbed her upper set. Completing his inspection, he smiled at her and gently caressed her cheeks with the pads of his soft, thin fingers. Elffled hoped that he would not try to kiss her. With a shudder, she remembered that horrible Sergeant Daungha. Surely the kiss of an aging man would not be so forceful as the probing tongue of the filthy Sergeant! "There, there, little flower, everything is fine," Awidan assured her. "You can go back to the other captives." He looked at Glokal. "Sergeant, you may release her."

Elffled could not believe that the inspection was actually over! There must be more to it than this! The detestable Glokal had been loathsome and crude as he always was, but save for pulling her hair, he had not really hurt her. Even though the enemy noble had insisted upon looking at her teeth, he had not been unkind. Relief washed over her in surging waves and she felt immensely grateful.

"Thank you, sir, thank you!" she squeaked out, and then felt stupid for having said that. Should she have said more... or would it have been better if she had said nothing at all? She was not sure. She was just a peasant and did not know how to behave before the wealthy and powerful. Only on the few occasions when some great lord of Rohan had passed through her village had she been so vividly aware of her insignificance and humble rank. Now as a slave, she was even more lowly than she had been as the daughter of a simple peasant.

Shakh Awidan patted her cheek and beamed at her. "Go in peace, little lily." Blushing in embarrassment, she bobbed a hasty curtsy. Then with a sideways glance to her sister, Elffled scampered away to the anonymity of the line, where she would be just another faceless prisoner. She felt silly for having been so frightened of a harmless inspection.

"Do you want to look at the biters of the other one, Excellency?" Sergeant Glokal asked in a weary monotone, impatient to be paid and done with the business. Maybe the whining old prick had been so pleased with the other girl that he would not dicker too much over her price, but you never knew when it came to these Southern shakhs. The sleepy-eyed bastards could talk a good one all day, but when it came to paying up, they would try to cheat the poor uruks every time.

"Yes," Shakh Awidan replied, tugging the end of his beard thoughtfully. For a brief moment, he had a dreamy expression on his face but he quickly banished his thoughts, returning to his usual businesslike mien. Beside him, Captain Zgurpu had grown more restless. To relieve the monotony, he stamped his feet and scratched his belly as he prepared to wait for the shakh to inspect the other wench.

The sergeant pushed Elfhild forward. "No pussy-footing now. You be good to me and I'll be good to you. Open your mouth for the Shakh, wench, or I might make this unpleasant for you!"

"You hairy brute, you have never been good to anyone in your life, and I do not think you will start now!" Elfhild twisted her head around to glare at Sergeant Glokal and then turned her hate-filled eyes to both Shakh Awidan and Captain Zgurpu. "You have no reason to look into my mouth! There is nothing wrong with my teeth!" She would never give into them as her timid sister had! The sight of Elffled cringing and cowering like a terrified rabbit had filled her with rage. If only she had been untied and had a knife, she would have... she would have... What? Felt the bones in her wrist crack like twigs when the uruks wrestled the dagger out of her hand? She could hear the cruel sting of their mocking laughter as they forced her to the ground. What was the use of struggling? She was just one captive among many and there was no one here who could or would help her. She must not allow herself to think this way, or she would become just like Elffled! She would give them some fight! That would show them!

"A little spitfire, eh?" Captain Zgurpu shared a knowing look with Awidan. "With a temper like that, she'll be hot in bed, I'll wager, squalling and scratching like a she-cat in heat! She needs a strong man to swive her good, tame her down and make her all sweet and docile!" He laughed to himself as he imagined the carping old man trying to ride her. If Awidan could manage to get a stiff enough one on, he would probably have to order those two Gondorian pretty boys to hold her down while he tried to shove his ancient, shriveled prick inside her. Maybe they'd even have to help him put it in! By Grond, the Old Dark One's mighty maiden-crusher! That was funny!

"She ain't so sweet and docile now!" Glokal hissed after Elfhild kicked him in the shin. Angry, he pushed the points of his talons against her skinny ribs until she cried out in pain.

"You are hurting me!" Elfhild exclaimed as she tried to thrust herself away from the uruk. His grip around her was like a mighty chain of iron! Frustrated, she clenched her bound fists and found the ropes just as unforgiving as ever. There was no use fighting them. She heaved a resentful sigh of protest and glared through the disheveled hair which hung over her face. "Please, if you stop trying to break my ribs, I will hold still!"

"Not so feisty now, are you, little snaga?" Laughing, he clamped his fangs around her earlobe, letting her feel the sharp edges against her tender flesh. Waiting for the pain to strike her, she held her breath. Slowly the jagged fangs pulled away from her ear, leaving her skin dripping with foul saliva. A shudder of revolt rocked her body from head to toe and she longed to wash her flesh free of the uruk's abominable spittle. Oh, how she hoped that the lice which had infested her hair on the march would hop off and plague him!

"Sergeant Glokal, that will be enough," the shakh exclaimed irritably. "There is no need to crush this tender bud." Sighed, he closed his eyes and touched his hand to his temple. "You are frightening her and causing my bowels to cramp! You know my health is not good, and discord causes the contents of my stomach to churn and my intestines to constrict." His expression was one of intense pain as he put a quavering hand on his abdomen and bent forward slightly, muttering and groaning.

"Aye, shakh, anything you say, but she is a fiery one!" Grunting, the Sergeant loosened his hold on Elfhild's middle. Damn him! Glokal thought. It would be just like the old fox to claim that the merchandise had been damaged and insist that they receive less for the consignment.

"Now just hold still," Awidan told her, his voice as calmly soothing as a farmer trying to calm a jittery mare. Elfhild opened her mouth wide, submitting to this degrading inspection. She felt like a filly on sale at a fair. A pensive expression on his face, Awidan ran his forefinger over the edges of her teeth, top and bottom. "Around thirteen or fourteen summers old?" he questioned.

Nodding her head, Elfhild mumbled a vague reply. Why should she tell this man anything about herself? Let him believe whatever he wanted!

"A good age for either the nuptial bed or the harem," the shakh chuckled, stroking a finger under her chin. "Unfortunately, your teeth and those of your sister will have to be filed at some time, for several are quite sharp. This imperfection is never tolerated in harem wenches." Elfhild paled and looked up at him anxiously. File their teeth? She had never heard of such a thing, and the very idea frightened her. Images of the rough metal files which the blacksmith had used to sharpen saws or smooth the hooves of her father's horse flashed through her mind. How could such harsh instruments be used on anyone's mouth?

"I have often wondered why she-slaves' teeth are filed, Excellency." A puzzled expression on his face, Captain Zgurpu glanced to Awidan. "We do not mind good, sharp bites from our females. In fact, we find their nips more than stimulating." When he saw the brief flash of anger in the Shakh's eyes, he knew that he had overstepped his bounds, but it was too late to correct his mistake.

Offended at the uruk's casual attitude and assumed familiarity with one so far above him in rank and importance as he was, Shakh Awidan furrowed his eyebrows in a deep scowl. "People of my land prefer not to discuss such matters in public, Sergeant." Such filth as the orcs were not fit to touch the toe of his shoe. Though even a whiff of the brutes made his weak stomach knot up in agony, Awidan knew that he must be patient and bear this insufferable situation. Business always had to come above personal feelings.

"Excellency, my humble pardon." Captain Zgurpu bowed his head as though ashamed. He tried not to laugh as he looked repentant. "The old bastard!" he thought to himself. "When he is together with his friends and surrounded by his dancing girls - or boys, if he has a taste for the same gender - I'll wager their tongues are not so pure! They probably say more obscenities than my kind do! All he wants is to make Glokal and me feel less than dung! We only put up with their arrogance for the coin we can make off them!"

"Now, Captain, let us get back to business." He turned from the Captain and smiled benevolently at Elfhild as he tickled her under her chin. "Run along now, little houri. I have learned all I need to know." Giving her bottom a quick squeeze, Sergeant Glokal released her from his powerful grasp.

It was over! Not looking back or offering any thanks, Elfhild turned and ran towards the other captives. The shakh's eyes followed her until she had disappeared amongst the prisoners.

With a regretful sigh, Awidan sank down into his chair. He motioned for the two Gondorian eunuchs to bring chairs for the uruks and goblets of wine for all three of them. Soon Captain Zgurpu and Sergeant Glokal were seated on either side of him, goblets in their hands. Wordlessly, the three watched as the last slaves in the line passed by them. While Awidan was pleased with the merchandise, he was determined to pay as little for the slaves as he possibly could. What folly it would be to throw money away to these animals! He might as well toss good coin to pigs!

The shakh put on his most doleful face and shook his head sadly. "Captain Zgurpu and Sergeant Glokal, I want to give you a fair price for these slaves, but unfortunately many of them are woefully flawed."

"What!" Captain Zgurpu's mouth dropped open and his brutish face registered disbelief. "Excellency, perhaps I am not hearing you correctly..."

Coughing, Shakh Awidan fumbled with the embossed leather pouch at his belt. Finally he drew out a fine linen handkerchief, embroidered with his monogram at the corner, and held it up to his mouth. Taking in a deep wheezing breath, he held his throat and coughed into the handkerchief. Dubiously the two uruks watched him as he returned the cloth to his pouch and rested a trembling hand to his lap. Finally he spoke. "Gentlemen, you have heard me correctly. While many of the women and children are satisfactory, I fear there are far more thorns and weeds than flowers. Very few of them fit the standards of beauty that are held in the South and East. Their hands and feet are far too large! Their ankles resemble the trunks of trees! And there are others whose skins are wrinkled and leathery from being in the sun for too many years. Then there are the matrons who are old and homely. Few men want to purchase females whose intimate parts are as large as a cow's!"

"This is impossible!" Captain Zgurpu bellowed as he gripped the arm of his chair. "This is the best lot of slaves which I have seen in years!" Not a word of what the bloody cheat had said was true! It was all the two uruks could do to hold their tempers and keep from reverting to their bestial natures.

"My good lads, I see with the trained eye of a slave trader," Awidan interrupted as he glanced up the road. The guards had turned the line of slaves around and were parading them back towards the shakh's tent. "I am sorely disappointed with these slaves." He shook his head sadly as his gaze fell on Breguswith. The madwoman was jabbering to herself as she cradled a wad of cloth in her arms. Occasionally she kissed the bundle and smiled and cooed, as though there were something alive inside. "What is wrong with that woman?" the shakh demanded. "I noticed her earlier."

"Of course, he would see the mad one," Zgurpu thought, cursing the woman. "Excellency, her brat just died not too long ago and she is not over it yet," he grumbled. "Give her some time. She'll be good as new." The Captain tried his best to dismiss Breguswith's obvious madness, but he could tell the shakh did not believe him. All it would take would be a few insane prisoners like Breguswith to drive the price down.

"Captain Zgurpu, while the woman might have been sound when she was captured, she certainly is not now. Such merchandise is virtually worthless." Awidan took a sip of wine and let out a sighing breath. "My employers' business establishment has many expenses besides the initial price when we buy slaves captured by the army. Every year, we must pay a heavy tax to the Lord of Mordor for the privilege of selling and buying slaves within His domain. We do not begrudge Him, however; we are very grateful for this opportunity. Then we have to feed and clothe the slaves and tend to any injuries before we sell them. When the slaves are sold on the block or in a private transaction anywhere in the Lord's fiefdoms, we must pay a certain percentage of the selling price to the highly esteemed Lord of Mordor. After all this, it is difficult to make a profit." The shakh hated to pay out one copper coin in expenses, but he would not say that to the uruks, lest they report him. "Then there are the records..."

"Shakh, we want our pay and we want it now!" Captain Zgurpu demanded, interrupting the shakh's lengthy dissertation as both he and Glokal stood up. He had grown weary of the old man's constant hedging. "No more dickering, no more bargaining. We have our orders and we know you have an agreement with the Higher Ups to pay us a fair market price for all that we bring you. Would you pinch pennies and cheat us poor lads?"

"I am a fair man, and I will do the best I can for you. Since all of you brave lads have sacrificed so much, serving heroically courageously on so many fields for the honor and glory of Mordor, I will be generous with you and give you more than these slaves are worth." Exhaling heavily, Shakh Awidan mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and handed his now empty goblet to Hunethon. "Bring me my coin chest!" he ordered the two young men, and soon they had returned with a large, ornately decorated casket carried between them. After they had placed the chest on the ground before the shakh, they lifted the lid, bowed, and stepped back.

"I deeply regret that this is all that I can give you." Shakh Awidan pulled out two small bags of silver coins from the chest and handed them to Captain Zgurpu.

"Is this all?" Captain Zgurpu snarled, testing the weight of the bags in his hands. Glokal growled deep in his throat, his fingertips skimming over the hilt of his sword.

"Ah, my good stout-hearted lads, good fellows both of you, perhaps I can give you a bit more. You drive a hard bargain!" Awidan sighed plaintively as he withdrew another bag of coins from the box. "Now that is my final offer! Take it or leave it!"

"The Shakh is most generous." Captain Zgurpu grinned as he took the bag and put it in his pack. He was convinced that he had intimidated the old cheat into giving them more money.

Though he tried to hide it from the uruks, the slave dealer was quite pleased with himself, for the orcs had settled for far less than he would have paid. He laughed at them in his thoughts. "If they had wished to bargain for the next hour or so, they might have worn even me down, and I would have given them much more than I did! I am most happy. All the women and maids will bring a good price when they are sold. Most will have exquisite appeal to any lord who is in the market for a bed mate. As for the mad one - perhaps a brothel, or the orc breeding pits; she needs no mind for that. Of course, I underrated the slaves' value most drastically. The uruks are ignorant and know little. If only they bring me more slaves as comely as this lot, I will be satisfied!"

Shakh Awidan coughed again and cleared his throat. "Now, Captain Zgurpu and Sergeant Glokal, my men will take these slaves off your hands. My energy is drained and I must go to my bed. You know my constitution is not stout! It is the climate, I say. Most foul! And the rain has brought swelling and pain to my joints. Foul weather, foul weather, no good for any! But what am I to do? A merchant must do as best he can. I must rest and have these two excuses for slaves prepare hot cloths and place hot poultices upon my poor bones. Only then can I have some relief!"

"Aye, Shakh," nodded the Captain, glad that at last the deal had been concluded. "Now we must be about making camp for the night now, for we will be marching out before dawn. Farewell until we meet again." After saluting, Captain Zgurpu and the Sergeant turned to lead their column away.

When the uruks had gone, a party of large, swarthy men came to herd the captives to their shelter for the night. "Move along, move along!" the men urged. "If you quicken your pace, maybe there shall be treats for you tonight."

Ahead in the distance, the captives could see the outlines of pens, which were nothing more than rough wooden boards firmly nailed to stout posts driven into the ground. Once swaggering guards in mail and boiled leather, their metal shod feet grinding on the dusty ground, had patrolled among the pens. They had occasionally looked between the slatted boards to jeer and gawk at the prisoners inside. After the great battles in the South, prisoners had been taken here and then housed in these pens before they were sent East to labor and die in the mines of the Mountains of Shadow and Ash. Those fortunate ones, and they were few, had been employed on the great slave farms in Nurn where some survivors even yet were moved in great gangs to tend the gardens of Sauron. Now the slave pens waited for the a different crop of captives: men, women and children captured in the war in the North.

Untied at last, the captives were given their evening meal. After so many days of dry orc bread and stringy meat, they were amazed as they were handed fresh bread and bowls of soup. The treats, too, were there as promised: candied fruits of strange and unknown kinds. After the captives had finished eating, the swarthy men herded them inside the constraining slats of the pens.

So began the first and only night that most of the captives would ever spend in Minas Tirith, and the iron grip of slavery slowly continued to tighten its fingers over their bodies and souls.


	4. Red Fell the Dew Like Tears

Chapter Written by Elfhild

Suddenly Elfhild was plunged into the stifling darkness of the slave pen. A surge of instinctive terror gripped her mind and she groped blindly ahead, her hands brushing against the back of the person in front of her. A flood of women and children streamed all around her, and the closeness of the other captives was suffocating. From all directions came hushed voices, sobs and the frightened cries of disoriented women calling to their children and relatives. Her eyes adjusting now to the dim light, Elfhild took her sister's hand and struggled out of the throng. She pulled Elffled to a corner near the entrance to the pen, a spot that had been neglected by the crowd. Frightened and confused, the two girls shrank against the wall, trying to keep out of the way.

As the last captive stepped inside the wooden pen, the door shut with a heavy thud. A key was heard turning in the lock, an evil doom manifesting itself in the form of sound. The swarthy men walked away, sauntering back towards their pavilions. Though the uncertainty of their new surroundings had frightened many of the women and children, it was not long ere eyes well-adjusted to darkness were able to descry their surroundings. The filtered glow of the torches about the camp drifted in through the horizontal slats, brightening the gloom a little.

Though a prison, the pen did have its comforts. The journey had been a long one and for many days the captives had naught but the cold ground for a bed and only the clouds above for a roof. Fresh straw was spread out upon the well-packed dirt, its sweet scent bringing to mind taunting reminders of home and brazier. Wonder struck Elfhild's mind – "Where upon all of Middengeard do fields grow freely and not wilt in darkness and in drought? And straw so early! Why, the wheat harvest would not be for two more months yet in Rohan..." – but the thought quickly flitted away and soon was forgotten.

The crowded pen was filled with a stir of movement and a hum of soft noise as women comforted each other and their children. At last, after almost a month, many were reunited with friends and kin who had been placed in different troops. Captivity had been cruel and the journey hard, especially for babies, small children and the elderly. Breguswith was not the only woman who grieved for a child who had perished.

Two figures moved towards the twins, and soon the girls were able to see their aunt Leofgifu and seven-year-old cousin Hunig. Their sad faces were softly illuminated by the torchlight which shone through the slats of the wooden prison. Hunig clung to her mother's skirt, hiding from the world in the soiled and tattered material. Soon mother and daughter were seated upon the straw beside Elfhild and Elffled. A heavy cloud of sorrow hung above them, ready to burst into a shower of salty tears.

"Mamma, did F-Father fight here?" Hunig asked tremulously.

"Yes, Hunig," Leofgifu replied solemnly. The words were spoken with a sense of finality that was so grim and dismal that their meaning seemed almost surreal.

"Is... is he coming back?"

Oh Gods. What should she tell her daughter? Should she fill her innocent mind with false hopes, or tell her the brutal truth that her father might be dead?

"I do not know," Leofgifu replied honestly.

"Father will come back," Hunig proclaimed defensively. Then her face fell and her lips trembled. "But we will not be at home! How will he ever find us?"

Leofgifu said nothing, instead squeezing her daughter in a desperate embrace. The lack of response troubled Hunig greatly, for she was accustomed to her mother reassuring her and telling her that everything would be all right. Tears began to slide down Hunig's cheeks.

Leofgifu sighed as she stroked her daughter's hair, her fingers skimming over the knots in those unruly tresses. The little girl's tear-filled blue eyes looked up to her for comfort and protection. Unfortunately, these were two things which Leofgifu could not give. Before the war, she had imagined a wonderful future for her daughter, one filled with happiness and blessings, a good husband and a loving family. Now the little girl's future depended upon the kindness of the one who bought her. What a horrible fate for a child to grow up in slavery!

A dark fear filled her heart with terror, a fear which had grown even stronger after Sergeant Utana's grim speech. What if the slave traders separated them? There would be no way that Leofgifu could protect her daughter then! Surely the slavers would not be so cruel as to tear a child so young from her mother's arms! Oh, how she prayed that they would both be bought by a kind person! It was their only hope. Leofgifu knew that she was no beauty, but she was a hard worker, and Hunig would follow in her footsteps. Together they could cook, clean, sew, weave, garden, take care of children, and do other such work around the house. Surely these skills would be desirable to the Easterlings and Southrons.

Her glance fell upon Elfhild and Elffled, who fidgeted nervously, their discomfort and worry obvious. They, too, wondered if their uncle were alive or dead. Not only did Leofgifu have to worry about Hunig's safety, but also that of her two nieces. "They have blossomed into such lovely young ladies," Leofgifu thought reflectively as she studied the identical oval faces, the slightly rounded noses, the soft, full lips, the delicately pointed chins. If only she had been that pretty when she was their age!

Unfortunately, the enemy soldiers also noticed the beauty of the twin sisters and gawked at them with hungry, lecherous eyes. It was only natural that the Southrons and Easterlings, so used to the dark-tressed, tawny beauties of their own lands, would consider two such golden-haired maidens as unique and exotic. Though the thought made her mind recoil with shame and disgust, perhaps the twins were lucky. What man would not desire two charming, comely girls who were almost identical in appearance? If he had any brains inside his skull, he would cherish these two prizes and shower them with love and affection. Yes, their beauty assured them a future of comfort and wealth, a future which Leofgifu knew she would never have.

Perhaps she should encourage the girls to be friendlier to their captors? When the Khandian cavalrymen had been guarding the prisoners, many of the maids had flirted with the men and were rewarded with delicious candies, exotic music, and tales from faraway lands. Though the older women, Leofgifu included, thought that such outrageous behavior was scandalous, not to mention traitorous, no harm had come of it. Perhaps some of those men would come back and buy the pretty maids who had caught their fancy. Surely a master who was in love with his slave would be kinder than one who was not.

Yes, perhaps she should advise Elfhild and Elffled to try to win the hearts of their new guards. The captives had just been turned over to new masters, and perhaps among these men were a few decent fellows whose hearts were brimming over with kindness and compassion... No, no, encouraging the girls to fawn over some Easterling or Southron seemed wrong. Yet counseling the girls to remain defiant and hostile towards their enemies, as some women did, was utterly foolish.

Perhaps she should tell them to treat the men with the same respect and courtesy that they would have shown to the Riders of the Mark? Yes, yes... she could advise the girls to treat the men as their betters and carry themselves with the dignity that befitted proper young ladies of Rohan. Leofgifu almost chuckled in wry amusement. She could already hear Elfhild's outraged protests and adamant oaths that she would never, ever treat an enemy like a man of her own land... Oh, what was the right thing to do in a situation like this?

Ever since Athelthryth's death, Leofgifu had tried to be as a mother to the twins, giving them guidance and advice. Yet she felt woefully inadequate. How did one make the right choices in a situation as horrible as war? How did one obtain such wisdom, such knowledge? She wished she could protect the girls from all harm, but what protection could she offer, really, either to the twins or to her own daughter? What comfort could she give them, save for false words of hope which rang empty and hollow? She was about as helpless as the frailest of the captive children.

If only Athelthryth were still alive! Surely she would know what to do. Back in the Mark, whenever Leofgifu was troubled, she would always turn to her friend for advice. Being around Athelthryth made her feel better and helped her to put things into perspective. "Sometimes you just need a friend, but more importantly you need to be a friend to yourself," she had always said whenever Leofgifu was wallowing in self-pity and castigating herself for some trivial mistake. Unfortunately, Leofgifu's other friends were in different troops, and she had no one in whom she could confide her fears and uncertainties. She did not know Waerburh very well; Breguswith had been driven insane; and Goldwyn did not care for her family.

A faint mumble from Hunig brought Leofgifu's attention back to her daughter, who had fallen asleep with her cheek leaning against her bosom. Bending her face down, she kissed the girl on the top of the head and then gently eased her back on the straw. Hunig stirred long enough to complain about the unexpected movement, but was asleep once again the moment her head hit the straw. "The march always exhausts her," Leofgifu remarked softly as she drew her cloak over the slumbering girl.

Lost in their own thoughts, the sisters nodded in silent agreement. All around them, the din of the captives had subsided into a dull drone of soft-spoken voices. The weariness of the day had descended upon Leofgifu and her two nieces, just as it had upon Hunig. Elffled clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle a huge yawn. Suddenly Elfhild burst out into tears.

"What is the matter, dear?" Leofgifu asked, concern in her soft voice, as she reached her hand out and gently clasped Elfhild's shoulder.

"Yes, Elfhild, what is wrong?" urgently inquired a worried Elffled.

"Father and Eadfrid are dead!" Elfhild wailed as she threw herself into her aunt's arms. "They fell together on these fields!"

Elffled felt her heart well over with sorrow, for her sister's grief was her own. Just a few months ago, their father and brother had been alive and well, and now they were dead, their bones scattered among those of both comrade and enemy. Overcome by sadness, she began to weep softly.

"How do you know that they were slain, Elfhild?" Attempting to comfort her niece, Leofgifu rubbed her hands up and down the sobbing girl's back. "There is no way we have of knowing their fate, so let us assume that they survived the battle. Mayhap they now fight the enemy in distant lands, or perhaps the survivors of the war have taken shelter in the mountains."

Elfhild violently shook her head in objection and pulled away from her aunt. Her bleary eyes pleaded with hers for understanding. "No, no, they were slain by the orcs! I know... I saw... his skull... my - my father's..." Whimpering, she wrapped her arms around herself and began to rock back and forth.

"Oh, Elfhild, the sight of all the bones has left you distraught!" Leofgifu tried to keep the alarm out of her voice. Elfhild was talking strangely, as though she were delusional! "That could have been anyone's skull. Every man, rich or poor, looks the same when he is dead."

Elffled looked between her aunt and sister. Her aunt was correct; the skull could have belonged to any man who was unlucky enough to have been decapitated in the heat of battle. Yet those hollow eyes had called out to her as they had to her sister, pleading with her to cast her gaze upon all that was left of a man once hale and strong. Emanating from the skull itself and the space around it was a peculiar sense of familiarity which made her feel somehow comforted, though achingly sad. Perhaps the whole incident had only been a macabre fantasy created by their grief-stricken imaginations? Oh, Elffled prayed that this was so, for if it were not, then that meant their father was truly dead!

"No, it was Father's skull!" Elfhild proclaimed loudly, much to Leofgifu's dismay, for several women turned to look at them. "I - I do not know how I know, but I just do..." Her voice lowered to a whisper and her eyes glazed over. "I - I think the skull itself told me..." Burying her face in her hands, she burst out into another fit of weeping.

"Oh dear..." Leofgifu wondered if the girl was going mad. The sight of the gruesome battlefield alone was enough to drive anyone insane, and Elfhild had endured so much anguish and sorrow as it was. It was not easy for a young girl to see her mother murdered before her eyes, and to know not whether to mourn for her father and brother, or to pray for their safety. Leofgifu reached out a somewhat tentative hand and lightly placed it upon Elfhild's shoulder. "Skulls do not talk, Elfhild... Perhaps you should lie down and try to forget the horrors that you have seen. Take solace in sleep. Tomorrow we leave this dreadful place."

"Yes, Aunt. I... I think I will lie down... After all, tomorrow's journey will be a long one..." Elfhild knew that it was useless to try to convince her aunt of what she knew was true. No one would ever understand the silent exchange that had passed between her and the skull, except perhaps her sister. For one, they would think the skull itself had opened up its bony jaws and spoken, which would indeed be quite an unbelievable tale, especially since none of the other captives had witnessed the incident. No, she had just looked into those empty eye sockets and that was when she iknew/i. She could not explain what had happened, only accept it.

The two girls kissed their aunt and wished her good-night. Leofgifu lay down beside her resting daughter, and then rolled over on her side. Sleep did not come easily to the three. The field of death and carnage continued to haunt their thoughts. Leofgifu worried about the twins, especially Elfhild, who was acting most bizarrely. Back in the Mark, the girl had sometimes spent hours meditating in the family graveyard, but she had never claimed that she had talked with ghosts. It was not that Leofgifu did not believe in the supernatural, for indeed she did. However, she had seen Breguswith's slow descent into madness, and she worried for the sake of her troubled niece. She even feared that the same fate might happen to her.

In the Mark, poor souls such as Breguswith would have been pitied, but, alas, they were no longer in the fair land of Rohan. Leofgifu dreaded to think of what would eventually happen to that poor woman once the captives reached Mordor. The merciless fiends would feel no pity in their black hearts for a distraught, insensible woman, unless they could put her to some vile or unpleasant use. Leofgifu shuddered to think of what it might be.

The gruesome sights she had seen that day were troubling enough; thoughts of the future would only plunge her further into despair. Leofgifu refused to think any more about what might happen in the days to come. The ghastly battlefield with its stark reminders of death and defeat had brought woe enough.


	5. The Unquiet Field

Chapter Written by Elfhild

The other members of Elfhild and Elffled's troop were scattered about the pen, each seeking out the company of old friends and relatives. Though their hearts were heavy with sorrow, the captives were glad for this rare time when all of them were assembled together and not divided into troops of ten. None knew how long they would stay near the sad city of Minas Tirith or what would befall them after they left. It might be many long days ere they would be reunited again with their kindred in other troops, or perhaps after this night they would be separated forever.

Waerburh mourned with her sisters, cursing all the folk of the Dark Lands in one breath and sobbing in the next. Breguswith, who had been led away by her relatives, now proudly showed the women the dirty bundle of rags which she thought was her dead baby. Shocked by her descent into madness, her family was torn between telling her the truth and not having the heart to do so. They decided among themselves that it was kinder simply to pat her on the back and murmur sympathetically.

If an opportunity presented itself before breakfast the next morning, Elfhild and Elffled planned to find some of their old friends from the village and inquire of them as to how they had fared upon this miserable journey. Tonight, however, they had spent with their aunt and cousin, suffering and grieving with one another. Leofgifu and Hunig were asleep now, but slumber had retreated far from the twins, and they were left to toss and turn upon the straw.

Goldwyn was talking quietly with her own kinswomen, and together they were trying to comfort her three sons. Fritha, the youngest, cried in his mother's arms, and tears streamed down the face of Frumgár. The two younger boys were glad for the attention from the women, but Fródwine, the eldest, felt he was far too old to be fussed over by females. The boy just wanted to be left alone to contemplate the doleful sights that he had seen on the ghastly fields. Not holding much hope that his father had survived, he wondered if his sire had been reduced now to only a skeleton, condemned to ignoble anonymity as all the rest. Perhaps he and the other captives had passed the pile of bones which contained his remains, scattered randomly after being picked over by carrion-birds and other scavengers. And what of his grandfather? Did he and the bones of his old gray horse lie upon the field as well?

The boy had seen terrible sights before but nothing which would compare to the silent horrors of the old battlefield. He remembered the time that a stray dog had attacked a litter of kittens on the family farm. Before his father was able to drive away the dog, the mongrel had killed one of the kittens. Another had fled to the nearby woods. Two days later, Fródwine found the missing kitten. The wounds upon its frail, quivering body had become infested by sickening white maggots which squirmed and writhed. Metallic blue and green flies buzzed about the kitten, feeding from the gashes and laying eggs in the lacerated flesh. The stench of decay had been nauseating, and mercifully, Fródwine's father had ended the small creature's suffering.

Fródwine tried to drive the memories of that unpleasant day from his mind, but still he could smell that horrible stench. Mingling with the recollection of those ghastly, maggot-infested wounds were the gruesome sights he had seen upon the battlefield. Had his father suffered the same way with vile insects swarming about his injuries? Fródwine's stomach lurched at the grim thought and a tortured look crossed his pale face. That was hardly the glorious warrior's death spoken of in lore and legend. No, it was something from some hell-spawned nightmare, a fever dream gendered by illness and delirium.

He felt his mother's eyes upon him, and he felt uncomfortable under her scrutiny. "Son, even at this moment, your father drinks mead in the hallowed halls of heroes, surrounded by other brave men who died defending their country." She spoke in that too-brave voice that he abhorred. "He died as an honorable man, a warrior. We can all think upon the memory of his unswerving valor with pride." He knew that his beautiful mother was only trying to bolster their spirits, but somehow he found her comment irritating.

"Mother, he is still dead, and we are left here." Goldwyn gave him a look which he could not quite fathom, but he could see the hurt in her eyes. The other women gasped in shocked surprise and then went back to a low, buzzing murmur among themselves, much like the maggot flies, he thought. Why could they not leave him in peace?

Before that terrible spring, war had only been a dramatic adventure in songs and tales told by fathers and grandfathers to audiences of wide-eyed children. Though the East Emnet had been raided many times by orcs from across the Anduin and the Westfold by Dunlendings and goblin-men from Isengard, the years prior to 3019 were filled with an uneasy peace in central and southern Rohan. Over a hundred years had passed since the Rohirrim had gone forth with swords, shields and spears against an invading force in their land or in that of their ally Gondor.

There was no threat in the homeland, save for political unrest during the reign of King Fengel, and the disquiet stirred up by the machinations of Gríma Wormtongue. It had been over a hundred and fifty years since any orcs had been seen lurking in the White Mountains, for they had all been killed or driven away during the reign of King Folca. In the sheltered fields and hills of the Eastfold the folk of Grenefeld had dwelt, protected to the east and south by the realm of Gondor; in the north by the swamps of the Entwash.

Like so many other boys and young men, Fródwine had regarded battle as naught but an excuse for grand adventure and sport. In song and lay, small bands of brave knights and heroes fought in battles against great hordes of innumerable enemies. Though the fight often seemed hopeless, somehow the day was always saved and most of the victorious warriors would come back home to tell tales of their brave deeds. Alas, not always does the reality of war mimic the glorious perception that many have of it! A hint of this grim enlightenment was starting to dawn upon young Fródwine and his brother Frumgár. At the tender age of only five, Fritha was still too young to understand fully.

At last eyes sore and stinging from the salt of many tears grew heavy, and limbs weary from marching and hearts burdened with grief ached for rest. The muted buzzing of many conversations faded to a soft lull as many of the captives began to lay down their weary heads and lose themselves in slumber. Tired bodies nestled into the comfortable straw, the sweet scent bringing a slight sense of peace to troubled minds.

Elffled lay on her side facing away from her sister, her eyes staring into the somber gloom. Yet she did not see the dim forms of her sleeping aunt and cousin illuminated by the slanted stripes of light and shadow cast by the wooden slats of the slave pen. Instead she saw the stark plain of death where the Battle of Pelennor Fields had been fought. Had this been the final battle that had been waged between the noble West and the savage East, or had there been more? The Sergeant's words had been so painfully vague, but one thing was for certain: the forces of the Dark Land had been victorious that fateful day three months prior.

Elffled's hand clenched the straw. Angry tears dotted her eyes. She wondered why – why did there have to be wars and raids; why did the folk of the Dark Land hate the folk of Rohan and Gondor? There had always been fear, strife and hatred between West and East and she knew little of its roots. It was just there; a part of life that was never questioned. She wondered how this horrible enmity began. Why could there not be peace? Why did everything have to be settled by war and strife?

Angry and bitter, she cursed the Oath of Eorl, for if it had never been sworn, then her father and brother never would have ridden away to alien fields, only to die for a crumbling realm. True, Gondor had given her ancestors the land of Calenardhon, but the oath between Eorl and King Cirion had been sworn nearly five centuries before. Why did Rohan have to remain loyal to a land filled with arrogant fops who thought they were better than everyone else? Perhaps if her country had not been so quick to help Gondor, the Dark Lord would have left them alone. If she were the king, she would have made any compromise and paid any tribute to keep her people out of war. But she was only a peasant girl, and knew little about ruling a country.

The Riders of the Mark had given their all, fighting bravely and gallantly against a foe far greater than they. Ever loyal and true, they had fulfilled their oath once again and had come to the aid of their old ally. They had willingly sacrificed themselves in the hopes that the people of the West would continue to dwell in freedom in the lands that they loved. Alas, they had lost, and all fears had come to pass.

Elffled heard the words of the old song, as though her father were singing them in his deep, rich voice, though this time it was filled with an intense sadness...

_The sun has gone down in the West in the hills over shadow._

_Where now the horse and the rider?_

Dead, all dead.

_Where is the horn that was blowing?_

Silenced forever, save in the ghostly echoes of time.

_Where is the helm and the halberk, and the bright hair flowing?_

Left to rust upon the field and rot in the ground.

No hand would pluck the harpstring, for fingers now were bone; no more crops would be planted in the spring nor would they be harvested in the autumn. All had passed like rain on the mountain, like wind in the meadow. Indeed the days had gone down in the West and now there was naught but the Shadow.

Elffled cried herself to sleep.

Later that night, her sister Elfhild awoke from a dark dream which had filled her heart with a great sense of melancholy. Her eyes staring into the darkness, her sluggish mind reflected upon the gloomy visions which she had imagined... Beneath the softly glowing moon, she walked upon the dew-soaked ground, her footfalls making only a soft patting in the stillness of the night. She wandered with little heed of her path, as though she were bewitched by some spell, enchanted by a mysterious lure which invited her to come ever nearer.

Weaving through the wild patterns of bones strewn upon the ground, her graceful, solemn steps carried her to the column of skulls. They looked down at her, their cavernous eyes friendly, their lips parted in everlasting grins. She felt completely at ease with them; no dark fear or dread did they impart to her. How strange it was that, she, one of the living, now communed with the dead in unspoken half-thoughts of contemplation!

The skulls glowed softly, the moonlight reflecting off polished ivory. A cloud fleeing away from the moon caused the field to be bathed in a radiant wash of silver. A gentle breeze stirred the grasses which had sprung up around the bones, causing the thin blades to dance and sway. The invisible current picked up tassels of golden hair, once worn proudly in braids or loose about the shoulders, and the tangled strands brushed softly against the poles upon which they now hung.

The breeze chilled her and she trembled slightly. She stood there for a moment, solemn and still as a barrow-marker. Slowly, gentle fingers reached up and stroked cool, porous bone where once a weathered cheek had been. She looked into the hollow caverns and imagined her father's kind blue eyes. Sighing wistfully, she gazed into those haunted, tortured pools of shadow and saw the eternity that someday she would know. The darkness of the grave, the oblivion of eternal slumber...

Elfhild lay upon her side, peering out at her dim surroundings through the slats, her long, slender callused fingers resting atop the rough board nearest to her. Her body and spirit were weary and cried out for solace, but yet her mind clung tenaciously to wakefulness. She stared out into the night until her eyes glazed over and her vision was filled with the strange muted colors one sees in the darkness, shades for which the conscious mind can find no name. Dulled both by physical and emotional exhaustion, her mind wandered aimlessly and she had difficulty directing her thoughts. They kept flitting away from her like butterflies in a meadow filled with wildflowers. Yet she did not mind. Reality itself seemed to slow down to accommodate her lassitude. She blinked several times, her eyelids slowly creeping over her eyes like sodden sheets being dragged over rough ground.

A mist from the River had gathered and the night was gray and foggy. Elfhild's heart swelled with sorrow and a strange sudden yearning. So intense were these feelings that she feared that her chest would burst asunder if she did not find relief quickly. Her hands clenched the straw in addled frustration. How she longed to break free of this cage! Then she could walk among the white mounds, searching for her father's skeletal body so that she might join his head to the bony shoulders.

"I am going mad," she mused, "mad like poor Breguswith."

But though the dream was over, her morbid thoughts would not relent. What did she have to lose, save more tears? She let her wild fancies take her sleepy mind where they wished and soon she became lost in her own strange, disjointed imaginings. Images and thoughts - some elaborate and complex, others simple or absurd - passed lazily in and out of her consciousness like minnows in a stream. Then in a fleeting instant, they vanished, and she drifted back into lethargic wakefulness. Random snatches of imaginary dialogue flitted in and out of her mind, nonsensical words and phrases which soon faded into oblivion, never to be remembered again.

She gazed into the swirling fog, her mind caught in the strange realm between wakefulness and dream. The mists deepened upon the field, an ethereal smoke lingering over a fire which still smoldered. Though the battle had been fought three months before, there had been too much strife for there ever to be peace again. Malice and hatred bubbled up to the surface like the blood which once stained the grass red and lingered in murky sanguine puddles. The very ground had been tainted by war, the veil between the two worlds brutally tattered by sword, knife and arrow.

The east wind began to moan. The air became colder. Across the field, spots of light appeared just beneath the ground. Glimmering with a silvery radiance as though they were glowworms, the pieces edged closer together. Finally they joined, the metal becoming weapons and mail, an armory forged without a maker. Then borne upon a unspoken groan, pale wisps rose from the ground, taking form until they became visible. Rising from piles of bones, skeletal horses stood to their feet, their gaunt frames now covered with phosphorescent flesh. The phantom riders leapt to their horses' backs, and, raising their spears, they formed into a line and thundered away.

And Elfhild beheld her father riding upon Thunorlic, and her brother Eadfrid rode beside him. How fearsome they looked, riding with the spectral host! Their gleaming eyes turned towards her, but she was not afraid. She returned their smiles and watched in awe as they rode swiftly away.

Racing across the plain, the phantom cavalry, relentless and unyielding, galloped to meet their enemies. With a voice terrible and deadly, they cried out in fury as they drove into a foe as dead as they. Once again, the Battle of Pelennor Fields raged, with the spirits of the slain enacting their last brutal moments among the world of the living.

Forcing back the Southern cavalrymen, the wan shades found that a great mass of uruks lay beyond the enemy horsemen. Elfhild watched in cold horror as a halberd caught her father's shoulder and dragged him from his horse. Screaming out his rage, Eadfrid leapt from his horse and slashed at the brutes with his sword. Soon he, too, was forced to the ground. The uruks' bloodlust was high, but there was little time to torture their prey. Uttering curses and blasphemies, they bludgeoned their prisoners with the blunt ends of their weapons and then mutilated the wounded men's faces, arms and legs with the saw-like blades. Eager to finish the bloody work and win more laurels for themselves, their commander ordered them to strike the killing blow. With great glee, the fiends slowly sawed off both men's heads, taking delight in the slow, cruel execution.

The mist from the Anduin rose up, obscuring the gristly scene in a pallid shroud of swirling vapors. When the fog had cleared, everything was as it had been before: the rough wooden slats of the slave pen, the dark form of a passing guard, the dim light of the camp. Yet Elfhild continued to stare out into the darkness. She had seen both of her parents murdered before her eyes. One had been in the flesh, the other in a vision, but that did not make the pain any less. She had lost everything and everyone. What was left for her, daughter of the ruins?

There was a whisper in the wind, the faintest, softest sound, a gentle wail, perhaps, a rustle in the grass, and then nothing. Only emptiness and the night, cold and unrelenting...


	6. The Clerk

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

When dawn came the next day, it seemed strange that there were no snarling orcs about to prod the captives into wakefulness. The brutes had been replaced by an assortment of tawny and swarthy men who had the distinctive look of the "East" about them. Clad in the finest of robes, the men were obviously very wealthy, perhaps rich merchants or even nobles. Upon their heads were the strange headdresses of the men of the South and East: bulbous hats that were shaped like onions and decorated with all manners of feathers and jewels; and headdresses created of long cloths draped over the head and secured by a length of cord about the crown.

Walking leisurely, the men conversed among themselves as they sauntered between the rows of slave pens and appraised the captives. Occasionally the women could hear snatches of their conversations, spoken in some unknown Eastern or Southern dialect. None of the men seemed in any haste to move along out of the compound and were content to stroll about and look at the women.

"Who do you suppose they are?" Elfhild whispered to her aunt.

"I dread to think who they might be," Leofgifu replied, "but from the gleam in their eyes, they do not mean us any good!"

"My guess is they are slave buyers from the barbarian lands," a woman nearby hissed. "You can be sure of one thing - if they see any woman they fancy, they will buy her to appease their perverse lusts!"

"Oh!" Elfhild shuddered as she put her hand up to her mouth.

The group of wealthy men parted as a line of Gondorian slave men and their heavily armed guards turned the corner. Moving down the lane between the pens, the procession halted midway between them. Two horse carts, each led by a young slave man, rolled into view behind them. Both carts held a huge kettle; a smaller tub of drinking water; baskets piled with loaves of bread; and wooden crates filled with eating utensils.

"Wenches, time for your breakfasts," one of the guards informed them in a thickly accented voice. "Come out one by one and line up in two orderly rows! No arguing or bickering now," he added. "There is plenty of food for all!" As the women and children passed by the cart designated to their line, they were each given a bowl of spicy smelling stew, a section of flatbread, and a cup of water.

After the prisoners had been fed, the guards tied the women's hands behind their backs and herded them in the direction of the tent city which lay below the ruined walls of Minas Tirith. The tents of brightly dyed wool painted the ravished landscape with an unexpected burst of color and gave the small city an almost festive air. Succulent meats grilled on small outdoor braziers perfumed the air with their spicy scents. The sounds of many voices all articulated in unknown tongues and accents mingled together and created a strange, though not unpleasant, babble. As they rode by on their prancing, spirited steeds, the hot-blooded Southrons and Easterlings cast flashing dark eyes upon the captives, shamelessly ravishing them with fiery glances. The sights, the sounds, the smells coming upon them in quick succession disoriented the captives, and their dazed eyes looked fearfully about them.

As the prisoners drew closer to a large green pavilion, they could see the standards which flew atop the tent. There, flapping in the gentle morning breeze, was the standard of Nurn, a green banner which depicted a sheaf of yellow wheat gripped in an iron-clad fist. Flying above it was the banner of the Great Eye.

"Move along, move along, there is no time to gawk at everything you see," the guards ordered the captives, who gaped at the sights about them. Taken to the pavilion, the prisoners were ordered to halt outside. The tent flaps had been drawn back and held with ropes, giving clear view of the interior. Two large, fierce looking guards stood on either side, spears in hand, ready to bar the unauthorized from entering.

Frightened at this strange new sight, the children wondered what further terrors awaited them inside. Crying, they clung to their mother's skirts, begging them not to force them to enter the tent. Many of the mothers were no less apprehensive and feared that once their children were within the green tent, they might be taken away from them. After the hideous sights of the day before, most were convinced that their circumstances would only grow more dire.

From the outside, the tent seemed quite ordinary, except for its great size. Inside, though, it was a bustle of noisy activity with many people coming and going. A number of portable tables and desks had been set up in neat, orderly rows. The clerks who sat behind these desks were serious looking men who bent over their large books, busy with making neat entries in the records. Assistants scurried about, looking up references in books; delivering volumes and then returning them to the correct shelves; fetching new pens and other writing supplies; and delivering goblets of wine to sooth their masters' thirsts. Gondorian slave men, clad in rough tunics, stood along the side walls, ready at a moment's notice to answer the summons of any of the clerks.

Practically every table in the pavilion was occupied by cringing captives. Nervous maids blushed furiously as they felt the eyes of the guards and scribes appraising their bodies. Frightened children clung to their mothers while they waited on long, hard benches for a clerk's next question. After he had questioned a woman until she was at the point of tears, the scribe would motion to a slave to escort the brow-beaten woman outside.

The long line of captives slowly shuffled towards the green pavilion, their feet stirring up puffs of choking dust. In spite of the early hour, their thin, tattered clothing had already become saturated with sweat, and some of the weaker captives slumped in the line. All the trees had been cut down long before, and there was not the slightest shadow to break the merciless vision of the sun. Adding to their misery, the captives had been unprepared for the resurgence of the sunlight, and after two days of constant sun, they suffered intensely from sunburn.

Restless from their monotonous duty and sweltering in the growing heat of the day, the guards were irritable, their tempers quick to flare. Since a fight amongst themselves would earn the men a severe whipping, they took their hostility out on the prisoners. A scream would ring out as the tresses of the flogger suddenly wrapped around the bare ankles of a woman who had not stood straight enough to suit a guard's demands. All the captives could do to avoid further antagonizing the guards was to endure patiently and keep their children quiet and close beside them. None of the guards were above cuffing a small child who wandered too far away from his mother.

The slave column slowly moved forward until only one woman remained ahead of Elfhild and Elffled. The woman trembled as she looked apprehensively into the tent. "You are next," the guard told her gruffly. When she hesitated, he gave her a push which sent her stumbling into the tent. Frightened, the twins stepped forward, but the guard barred their way. "Pretty darlings, no need to be in such a haste! You will be allowed to go in when the scribe is available. For the time, you can stay here and keep me company," he chuckled as his face twisted in a sinister leer.

After another long wait, the guard moved behind them and untied their hands. "Now it is your turn, slave girls. Just follow the pretty boy who now approaches."

"Master, the scribe is ready for them now," the slave told the guard as he walked up to them and bowed his head. He was a pleasant-faced young man of eighteen, his dark hair clipped short, his well-built body lithe and wiry.

"What a handsome boy!" the guard exclaimed as he reached out and cupped the slave's clean-shaven chin in his hand. "Perhaps I will ask your master to let me borrow you for the night, and you can serve my dinner to me. What a delicious dessert you would make! You look like one who has been trained to please men." His voice was low and husky as he pulled the man closer and squeezed his buttocks.

"Whatever Master desires," the slave man replied dully, his body stiffening as though he had just endured a physical blow, not just one to his pride.

"Take these wenches in now, boy. We will talk later." The guard winked as he reluctantly slid his hand from the slave's muscular bottom.

"As Master wishes." The young man turned to the confused twins, who, in their country innocence, understand little of what had just transpired between the two men. "This way, please," he told the girls, his voice hard and bitter. Though his eyes were kept lowered, the gray orbs flashed with defiance and anger. "We are dirt under the masters' feet. Give them no trouble and you will be through here quickly, but if you balk at anything, you will soon feel their whips," he cautioned them in whispers as he directed the girls to two stools in front of a portable desk. Leaving them without another word, he joined the other slaves along the wall where he would wait until he was again called.

Across the table from the twins sat a tall, thin, clean-shaven man. He was young in years, but the frown that was perpetually etched upon his face made him appear older. He seemed disinterested in what he was doing, which at that moment was chewing on the end of a quill pen. He had dark hair, light gray eyes and fair skin, signifying that somewhere in his ancestry there was the likelihood of Gondorian blood.

"Let us commence," he began in a bored tone of voice as he dipped the point of the quill into the ink well. "You on the right," he pointed the pen at Elfhild, "what is your name?" He spoke in perfect Common Speech, untouched by any accent.

"Elfhild," she stated plainly. It seemed that all the men of Mordor with whom she had ever spoken wanted to know that same question.

With a neat hand, the young man made a few marks in a record book, and then recorded the same information in another volume. The girls watched the movement of his skilled hand with great curiosity. They had seldom seen anyone write, and so his motions were quite mysterious to them, an arcane art of which they knew nothing.

"The runes for your name, Elfhild." The clerk turned the book around and showed the page to the twins. "They are written in the language and runic script of Mordor."

"They are very pretty, sir," Elfhild murmured in awe as she stared at the series of straight, sharp marks and others which were accented with curls and loops. She did not know how to spell her name, not even in the runes of her own people.

"Oh, I wonder how mine shall look," Elffled exclaimed eagerly, her eyes studying the large volume.

"You will soon see." The clerk turned the book around to face him. "And your name is?" he asked as he motioned towards Elffled.

"Elffled, sir," she smiled softly.

"Twins, obviously," he remarked as he turned to the other volume and scribbled a few lines. "You are doing very well, girls... Sit quietly, please. Now this will take a few moments, for I must record all these details in several languages in two separate books."

The twins were silent as the clerk's pen rapidly moved across the paper, leaving behind an elaborate, highly embellished script that resembled fine lace. "The language of the Southern lands, its written text as beautiful as its sound," he remarked as though to himself. Turning the page, he looked back at them. "Scribing is not easy. You must learn many languages to become an expert. I studied for years before my professional talents were developed fully. You see all these books on my desk?" He gestured to a stack of volumes on his left. "I have been here since long before dawn, readying things for the day and organizing records. Many do not realize the importance of a scribe's duties, or the length of his labors."

"Sir, your work sounds very complicated and difficult," Elfhild offered politely as she folded her hands on her lap.

"Aye, the work is exhausting." He motioned to a passing slave to fetch him a goblet. Closing his eyes, the scribe tasted the liquid. "A very mellow wine with a rich, full-bodied flavor." Sipping from he goblet, he studied the girls for a few moments and then looked back down at the open page of his record book. Fascinated with the sight of their own names, both sisters let down their guard and eyed the clerk with friendly, inquisitive expressions. The clerk's profession intrigued them, for few in their village could even sign their own names.

"Now back to business." He dipped the pen in the inkwell. "From whence do you hail?"

"The Mark," Elfhild replied.

"I knew that," he chuckled softly. "Are you trying to be coy with me?" He flashed her a perfect smile of white, evenly spaced teeth. "Where were you born?"

"Grenefeld in the Eastfold," she clarified with a sigh. "Why must you ask these things?"

"We are required to keep an accurate record of every slave who is captured," he explained. "Nothing escapes the attention of the Tower, and the officials want to know the pertinent details about every man, woman and child in our keeping. This system is comparatively new, and I am told there was nothing like it in the old days." He noticed their look of alarm and smiled reassuringly. "Nothing to fret your lovely heads about. Just simply a matter of record keeping. Father's name?" he asked after taking another sip of wine.

"Eadbald," Elfhild replied, feeling defeated and confused. All of this was too much to take in at one time, and she wondered if their captors considered them as nothing more than animals whose pedigrees were thoroughly studied before they were selected for some particular use.

"How old are you?"

Elfhild lowered her head demurely, hiding a little smile. "I am sorry, sir, but we do not know how old we are." This was not true, of course, but she felt that this young clerk with his constant barrage of questions would strip them of all their secrets until their whole lives had been laid bare.

Elffled looked at her sister questioningly. When she saw Elfhild's wink, she caught on to the game she was playing. The enemy did not have to know _everything_ about them, and they would divulge nothing except those details which they were absolutely compelled to give.

"You do not know how old you are?" He stared at them incredulously. "Stand up and let me take another look at you. I have seen enough slaves to be a fair judge of their age." His eyes narrowed as he looked at them appraisingly. "Hmmm..." he muttered, tapping a forefinger on the table. "You certainly are not children, but you each have a certain look in your eyes which is very innocent." He chuckled. "You have not lived long enough to have seen very much. Judging by that, I would estimate that you were both no more than thirteen years of age." He paused. "But you are very well developed - quite well developed in fact - to be so young." His eyes rested on Elfhild's firm, young breasts, and she bowed her head in shame.

"Ah, yes, you are both quite lovely," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "To be safe, I will put you down as sixteen years of age." Smiling to himself, he recorded that age in the volume and then looked at them again. "You may resume your seats. Do you know when you were born?"

"On Midsummer's Eve," Elfhild admitted, proud of her notable birthday.

"An auspicious date," he told them, his pen poised over the parchment. "Now to the next question. Which of you was born first? Some find such facts very important to know. Astrological charting, and that sort of thing. As I said, we need all pertinent information." His eyes crinkled in a smile.

"I was, sir," Elfhild replied softly, surprised by the question.

"Now a few more questions and we will be done." Sipping from the goblet of wine, he placed the pen back in its holder and leaned back in his chair. His eyes had darkened with a look that made them both feel uncomfortable, as though he could see through the material of their tattered dresses. His next remark stunned them. "You are flirting with me, and do try to deny it." His gray eyes sparkled with mischief.

"I do not familiarize myself with men of the enemy," Elfhild retorted coldly.

"Do you find me handsome?" he asked, turning his head so they could admire him from the side. Although neither girl would admit it, he was strikingly handsome in profile. His long, dark hair fell to either side, framing a face which possessed a broad forehead; an intelligent pair of gray eyes; a long, almost regal nose; and a set of full, sensuous lips. His face was almost too delicate, but was saved by the strong chin which jutted slightly forward. The clerk kept his pose for a few seconds longer, and then stabbed a long, graceful finger in their direction as he suddenly turned back to them. "Ah ha! I know that look you are giving me! Already you are infatuated!" His eyes searched theirs, and the girls turned away, blushing. "You see? That proves it. Of course, that does not surprise me in the least. Every maid falls under my spell sooner or later and attempts to use her wiles upon me, hoping for some small favor." The smile with which he graced them was supercilious and patronizing.

"In spite of all your admirable qualities, sir, I find you the vainest man I have ever met." Though she was indignant, Elffled was mildly amused, and she lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. Elfhild shot her sister a stern frown, reprimanding her for her forwardness. In return, Elffled gave her a prim little smile as she folded her hands and placed them in her lap.

"Vain, but handsome nonetheless," he taunted good-naturedly.

"As handsome as any fine gander who struts in the farm lot, announcing with his boastful honking his own self-importance," Elfhild rebuked him flippantly.

"What a pity it is, sir," Elffled added sweetly, "when the farm wife plucks all his fine feathers, chops off his graceful neck, and soon has him stewing in the pot."

"Saucy little things, are you not?" the scribe remarked devilishly. "I always fancied a maid with spark. If circumstances were different, I should very much like to take you both to supper tonight at some suitable inn. Perhaps we could stay a few days, but, alas," he closed his eyes and sighed regretfully, "such niceties of life are impossible in wartime."

Insulted at his implications, Elfhild shot back, "You are a shameless wretch to suggest such a thing! Even if it were not wartime, never would we consent to dine with one of the low barbarian races!"

"Barbarian races?" he asked, genuinely surprised, a look of hurt appearing in his eyes before he quickly camouflaged it with a smile. "So you think me a barbarian, and, of course, the noble maids of Rohan consider barbarians beneath their notice."

"Aye, sir, a barbarian indeed!" Elfhild retorted, her blue eyes glittering coldly. "Never would we waste our graceful charms upon such men. All we can promise to them is politeness and courtesy, but only if we find it reciprocated."

"Come now, your sister has charged me with vanity, but you are as guilty as I am, for you claim that you are charming. Not only charming, but as you say, 'gracefully charming." The scribe's eyes flashed with amusement and another emotion, which she suspected was desire.

"Of course," Elfhild responded arrogantly. "We are daughters of Eorl."

"So that explains it all! Well, damn me!" The clerk burst out into great, heaving gales of laughter that he let go unchecked. "If I am the gander, then you two must be the geese! How amusing!" He laughed until his sides ached. "If a competition were ever held for modesty, the two of you would never be the winners! Still your impertinence is charming in its own way." He raised his goblet. "Now here is to the daughters of Eorl, who have proclaimed themselves as utterly charming while denying in the next breath that they are equally as vain!"

"The women of the West have a right to be," Elfhild retorted haughtily. "Mock not of that which you know nothing!"

Giggling at their exchange, Elffled glanced about and saw that others were staring at them. She quickly hid her amusement behind her hands.

"Such delightful hypocrisy! You have given me some welcome relief from the daily tedium." He tapped the tips of his fingers together. "If I were an artist, I would capture the proud little expression upon your face when you proclaimed, 'We are daughters of Eorl!' Surely you deserve some reward for amusing me. What shall it be?" He put his hand to his forehead. "Ah, I know! I will tell you my name, which I am not required to divulge." Pressing his hand against his chest, he bowed from the waist. "Let me introduce myself. I am Garavegion of the City of Turkûrzgoi, Nurn, where my father is a man of no little importance. You might note that while my name is Sindarin, I am no Elf, but merely a man of mixed blood."

"Thank you," Elfhild gave him a small smile, feeling somewhat appeased. Although she did not know where the city of Turkûrzgoi was located, or anything else about Nurn for that matter, she would never let ihim/i know that. "I shall remember your name. Now, since you have asked us about so many details of our lives, it seems only fair that you tell us something of your own." Though her manner was cool and reserved, she was beginning to like the pompous clerk in spite of herself, and he could be quite flattering as well...

"Sir, please tell us," Elffled implored, leaning forward to hear him better.

He looked at them both for a few moments before beginning. "Perhaps you have guessed by now that I am neither Easterling nor Southron. I suppose that must puzzle you." He looked from one girl to the other. "Yes, I see that it does. Without giving the matter any thought, you assumed that I must be one of the 'barbarian races,' as you call them. No," he told them, his pride obvious in his voice, "though it is mixed, the blood of the Númenóreans runs in my veins."

"Well, sir," Elfhild blushed, "there was no way to know."

"You see?" he shook his head. "An assumption based on ignorance... That can be dangerous. But time grows short, and let us not waste it in argument." He glanced at the still-open record book." Emptying his wine goblet, he motioned to a slave boy to pour him another. "I will tell you what I can in the brief time remaining to us." His face grew very serious. "After the Great Tower was destroyed long ago, the lands hereabouts knew no war, but enjoyed a period known as the Watchful Peace. It was during that time that a Gondorian ancestor of mine traveled to Nurn and was so impressed with the country that he wanted to stay. When he had retired from the Army of Gondor, he took his family and settled there.

"Throughout all the turbulent history of the country since that time, my family has remained there, prospering as things improved. Over the years, my branch of the family became involved in government, many becoming politicians and scribes." His expressive eyes reflected some unbidden thought that seemed to trouble him, but he soon shook the mood away with another draught from his goblet. "That is all there is to tell about me other than, as you have observed, I am a clerk." He smiled. "When I return to Nurn, I plan to write a book recounting some of my observations of women and other delightful subjects. Mayhap I will record your names in it," the young man suggested. This time he seemed to be sincere.

"That would be very kind of you, sir," Elfhild replied graciously.

"If only we could read it," Elffled exclaimed wistfully.

"Perhaps we will meet again in Nurn someday. One never knows, but now our time grows to a close," he remarked, a tinge of regret in his voice. Taking two small pieces of parchment, he wrote down a few lines on each one and handed them to the twins. "After you leave here, the guards will escort you to the blacksmith's workshop. There, you are to give these pieces of parchment to his assistant, who will engrave your names, numbers, and all necessary information on your tags."

"Blacksmith? Tags?" Elffled inquired, her confusion obvious in the bewildered expression on her face.

"We have numbers?" Elfhild asked, suddenly very frightened.

"Yes, Elfhild. Your number is 99337-GER031T, and your sister's is 99338-GER032T. The first five digits in the sequence are your own individual number. No one can ever take that away from you." He smiled pleasantly. "Is that not good?"

"That certainly is reassuring," Elfhild remarked dryly.

"The other numbers, sir," Elffled spoke up, her voice timid. "What do they mean?"

"Ah, those." He rubbed his nose with the tip of one of his long, graceful fingers. "The second sequence records personal and demographical information. Slaves from the same region or village can share some of the same designations. The 'G' is for Grenefeld, your village; the 'E' stands for the Eastfold, your region; 'R' is for Rohan; '03' stands for 3003, the year in which you were born; and '1T' and '2T' state the order in which you were born, and that you are twins."

"But I do not want to be called by a number!" Elffled exclaimed, close to tears.

"Nothing to worry about, my sweet," Garavegion gently murmured as he rose from the table and moved behind them. As he rested a hand upon each of their shoulders, both girls trembled under his touch. "Are numbers anything to fear? Why, certainly not." He squeezed their shoulders reassuringly. "Every slave of Mordor has one. Have no fear; no one will call you by your numbers. They are only for the records, a mere formality." His voice was gentle and persuasive, but still his words sent a shiver of dread up their spines.

"These tags, sir... what do we do with them? From your Master's infamous reputation, I hardly think that He would want us to wear these tags upon ribbons about our necks." Tossing her head to the side, Elfhild looked up boldly at the scribe, a challenge in her aquamarine eyes.

"You call him my 'Master' - again, you make assumptions about me." Garavegion's voice turned icy cold and he stepped back from the sisters. "I have no master! I am my own man!" His pale face grew dark with anger.

Elfhild twisted around on the bench to face him. "Sir, I am sorry. I did not mean-"

"No matter!" He held up his hand to silence her. "'Tis a pity that we must part on a note of unpleasantness, but you are dismissed. You will learn about your new necklaces soon enough," he chuckled darkly. "Boy," he motioned to one of the slaves at the side of the tent, "escort these two back to their guards!"


	7. A Band of Iron

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

After leaving the clerk's pavilion, the twins were escorted by their guard to the blacksmith's workshop. Situated around the hastily built wooden shanty were rows of shelves, each marked with painted runes and holding iron collars. Resting on a bench, his back leaning against the work table, sprawled a man whose bulging obesity had been the cause of the deep bow in the length of the wooden seat. His face was covered with a coarse, bristly black beard which was denuded in places with raised red pustules and splotches of lurid, inflamed skin. "Mange," Elfhild reckoned, "just like a hound." Sitting with his hand idly resting near his crotch, massive thighs spread obscenely, he gawked rudely at the twins.

His back towards the women, a much smaller man was bent over the work table, his attention concentrated upon some labor which he was performing. "Almost done, Master." As he turned to look at the massive brute beside him, the twins saw him in profile. An ugly little man, his face was not improved by the dark hair spread too thinly over an abnormally large skull; the sharply defined nose; and the weak, receding chin.

The guard ordered the twins to wait and be silent. Since there were no chairs in the building, the girls stood stoically. The guard seemed to find waiting as monotonous as the twins, and, to pass the time, he relaxed into a casual manner of speaking. He pointed out to the girls that the larger man was the blacksmith and the other man was his assistant. In an enthusiastic voice, he described the making of the collars and remarked that the place where they had been forged was "as hot as the flaming fires of Udûn!" All that remained to be done now was the inscribing of their names and information on brass tags which would be riveted to the iron.

"Blacksmith, I will be waiting outside if you need me," the guard announced as he turned and walked out the door.

The blacksmith, who was wearing a leather apron over his enormous drooping stomach, arose from the work bench and stared at the twins. "Let us make this as quick as possible, slave girls." The twins tried not to gape at the monstrosity before them.

"Submit passively, or pay the consequences," the smaller man piped up in a voice with a distinctive nasal twang. "All you have to do is stand quietly while the collar is placed about your neck." He did not bother to hide the yawn which escaped his lips.

Her head held high, Elfhild challenged him. "And what if we do not?"

"The guards will be called, and I do not think you will enjoy that," the blacksmith interjected. "They like to entertain themselves with pretty slaves. Their hands have a tendency to roam when they discipline a girl, and you might guess where their groping fingers will wander. I would not mind having a feel of you myself." The blacksmith smirked as his pig-like little eyes studied them, and his assistant gave a gurgling chuckle that sounded obscene. The smaller man blinked as though the light offended his vision.

Warily, Elfhild studied the two men. Should she give in and submit, accepting the collar like a trained dog? Or should she fight the degradation, and possibly suffer some dreadful punishment? Licking her lips nervously, Elffled glanced between her sister and the men, praying that there would be no trouble.

"Elfhild, please..." she whispered, but her sister ignored her with a toss of her head.

"This will not take long. Just accept this gracefully and you will be on your way." Leering at her, the blacksmith revealed a gleaming gold front tooth in a mouth impossibly small for a man of his size. For a moment, Elfhild wondered how he had ever been able to stuff so much food into such a tiny orifice. Obviously, he had been more than successful, she thought wryly.

"I do not think we need any new jewelry today," Elfhild replied curtly as she stared the man straight in the eye.

"I do not know about these two!" the assistant whined as he looked nervously around at the blacksmith.

Both the blacksmith and his assistant had been taught their art in Lugbûrz. One thing that had always been emphasized there was the admonition, "Never trust slaves." There was no telling when one of the scum might go mad and grab some work tool lying about. Though it had never happened to either man, they had both heard tales of slaves who, with murderous gleams in their demented eyes, had come rushing with improvised weapons at guards or supervisors. More than one had slain his master. Lugbûrz was efficient, though, and any rebels were either struck dead on the spot or hauled away to the dark dungeons to provide sport for the guards.

This girl was much too saucy for his liking. Unwilling to take any chances, the blacksmith did the simplest thing possible. "Guards!" he thundered.

Hearing the alarm, five burly guards rushed through the entrance. Immediately surrounded by the men, each girl soon found herself held by two guards, the men's strong fingers pressing deeply into their arms. The other guard crossed his arms over his chest, ogling the girls as they struggled to escape. His eyes were riveted upon their jutting breasts, which jiggled deliciously with each desperate movement.

"No!" Elffled cried in dismay, her mind reeling at the sudden onrush of attackers. Snarling like a wild animal, Elfhild fought and kicked sideways at the guards.

"Bind them!" the blacksmith shouted. "They will claw out my eyes! I know these she-demons from the north!"

A look of near panic on his face, the assistant picked up a pair of pliers from the workbench and, trembling, he stood up, holding the pliers defensively before him. "Do not let them near me!"

Elfhild could have laughed at the foolish little man and the equally cowardly giant blacksmith. However, her situation was much too unpleasant to permit any mocking laughter.

The guards took no time in drawing the girls' wrists together behind their backs and tying their hands together with stout ropes. Growling in frustration, Elfhild continued her vicious kicks, aiming for the guard's shins. A man beside her gathered up her hair in his fist and gave it a fierce tug, sending Elfhild into a paroxysm of pain and drawing from her throat shrieks of agony. At the sight of her sister's distress, Elffled, close to swooning, began to sob hysterically.

"Do you want to be bald, slave girl?" the guard threatened Elfhild as he gave her hair another jerk. "I will tear your hair out by the roots if you do not hold still!"

Wincing from the severe pain, Elfhild ceased her struggles, submitting unwillingly to her tormentors.

Now that both twins had been subdued and tied, one of Elffled's guards stepped behind her. Holding her around the waist, his other hand fondled her firm rump. She squirmed in his grasp, trying to evade him, but his hands pressed their merciless attack and slid upward, groping her full breasts. Weeping even harder, her cries turned into wails.

"I tried to warn you!" the blacksmith admonished. "But, no, you little chits would not listen!"

"Hold the little wildcat steady, men," the assistant hissed through his teeth. Moving around behind Elfhild as the men held her, he placed the circle of iron about her neck. A small metal rod clicked in place in the lock at the back of her iron collar. "Are you not pleased with your new necklace?" the little man chortled, his hand moving forward to squeeze her breasts painfully.

"Damn you, no, you scrawny little weasel!" Elfhild shot back, hate dripping from every word. "You deserve to be hanged from the highest scaffold by this horrible thing!" She tried to wrench her arm free to elbow him, but the guards held her fast.

"Bring me the other collar. I will put it on this little beauty myself." The blacksmith wiped off his sweating brow as his assistant went back to the worktable, soon returning with another collar. "Hold her tight, men! She is probably as vicious as her sister!" the smith told the guards as he moved behind Elffled and lifted her hair to the side. Too frightened even to struggle, the girl stood there trembling as the man slipped the cold iron about her neck and locked it in place. The key in the lock sounded with an echoing finality.

As she watched the huge blacksmith collar her sister, Elfhild felt as though the iron band around her own neck was squeezing it slowly, cutting off her air. Although the collar fit snugly, the band was not painful in itself, and was far from imperiling her life. Still, the hateful iron collar was greatly vexing, and she highly resented both it and the doom that it represented. Enraged at the indignities to which she and her sister were being subjected, Elfhild's chest heaved and her blue eyes burnt with a fierce hatred.

Finished with Elffled, the blacksmith lumbered around to face both girls. "Just cannot satisfy the two of you, is that it?" he chortled. "Perhaps you do not like the color, or you think they are not fancy enough to suit you? Or maybe you do not think that the black metal favors your fair skin. While they might not be extravagant enough for your tastes, I assure you that both collars are quite stout and very serviceable. And another thing," he rubbed his hand fondly over his huge stomach, "since they are so close to the veins in your precious necks, you will think twice about trying to file them off."

Elfhild stared defiantly at the ruddy face of the man, resentment boiling inside her. There was nothing she could do; her wrists were tied behind her back, and she and her sister were entirely at the mercy of these louts.

Looping a finger in one of the iron rings on Elfhild's collar, he pulled her face close to his. "You probably are not impressed with the workmanship of this collar, but I assure you it is well made and strong. Possibly you noticed that it is hinged on the side with a loop both in the front and the back. These rings are the places where chains will hook you to the other slaves in the line. No," he laughed unpleasantly, "it is not to double-hitch you in a stall like a horse! Although it could be used for that, should your master have the yearning to do so."

"By Melkor's seething balls, Master Smith! I would like to be the one to hitch her between the posts and hump my way to paradise inside her!" The blacksmith's assistant produced another one of his gurgling, obscene laughs. The he blinked, hiccuped, and broke wind loudly, the combined sounds resembling a small dog suffering from intestinal distress.

"It would take that to hold this one," the smith chuckled, "but she would be worth it!"

Clenching her fists behind her back, Elfhild sucked in her breath through gritted teeth, hissing like a viper. She glared at the crude men, her eyes narrow black slits of contempt.

"Flash your eyes at me like that, pretty wench," the blacksmith held his thumb under her chin as his forefinger stroked her lower lip, "and I will have a kiss from your sullen lips!"

"Take your hand off me," Elfhild spat, each word falling like icicle spears, cold and sharp. "I would rather kiss a hog than you!"

"Hear that, men?" the blacksmith put his hands on his hips, his elbows cocked out at an angle to his body. "She would rather kiss a hog! Is that not the quaintest thing you ever heard in all your days?" He guffawed, his huge belly shaking with every sound. A grime-covered hand reached out for her neck, the other clumsily groping for her buttocks. Pulling her to his face, his bulbous red lips harshly pressed against hers, and she felt as though her mouth had been engulfed by a slimy piece of raw liver. A sharp pinch to her bottom had her screaming, and he took the opportunity to plunge his unwholesome tongue into her open mouth. The excitement must have been too great for him, for he belched into her face, spewing garlic and onion flavored spittle upon her lips and cheek.

"Never been kissed much, have you, wench? You do not even know how to kiss!" the blacksmith mocked, laughing at her crimson, spit-flecked face as he pushed her away.

"Y-you are a loathsome, repugnant beast!" Elfhild shrieked as spat profusely, trying to purge the foul taste from her mouth. And to think that was her first kiss! She longed to wipe off her lips, but her hands were bound helplessly behind her back.

The scene set the guards into riotous laughter. "Pity the poor maid! She has just been bussed by the great boar himself! Come now, men, do we want her to have that memory?" a guard exclaimed, chuckling. "You do not mind sharing her, do you, blacksmith?"

"Not at all," he smith returned, folding his dough-like arms over his immense chest.

The closest guard grabbed Elfhild, thoroughly kissing her. With a laugh, he passed her to the next. The guards were not content until each one had raped the girl's mouth at least twice.

"What about the other one? We do not want her to feel neglected!" their chief called out merrily.

"Oh, no, please!" Elffled cried out, sobbing.

"We insist," the chieftain murmured as he took her in his arms, delivering kiss after kiss on her cheeks and neck and concluding with the plunder of her mouth.

"My turn, pet!" the next one shouted.

"Here, here!" the blacksmith snarled. "Stop now! This is taking too much time!"

"We are almost finished!" the last man in line exclaimed as he squeezed Elffled's nipples through her dress. He capped off his achievement by lifting up her skirt and pushing an exploring hand between her legs. "Now you have been kissed by real men and not the Master Porker! Remember that," the man smiled as he gave Elffled a parting tweak to her rump. Violent sobs rocking her slender body, she fell to her knees, moaning in misery.

Muttering, the blacksmith turned his considerable bulk around, and after waddling over to the work bench, he sat down with a sigh. "All right, men," he wheezed as he wiped his forehead off with a dirty rag pulled from his leather apron, "you are dismissed, all save two of you."

"Wanting to have all the fun for yourself, are you, blacksmith? Do not forget; we will be right outside the tent. If there is any sporting to be done, we will take our share!" The chieftain of the guards winked at the blacksmith before he and his men moved out the door.

"Now you," the blacksmith pointed to one of the two remaining guards, "take the quiet, passive slave on to the next tent. I have a few more words to say to her sister."

Swaggering over to the trembling, crying Elffled, the guard pulled her roughly to her feet. "Get along, sweet beauty! Walk prettily in front of me... unless you would rather go with me behind the tent. We could get a lot closer there!"

"No!" she wailed, choking on her tears.

"You are going to get a nice pair of boots," he laughed and gave her rump an encouraging slap to prod her out the door.

"Thought you were so wise, did you not?" the blacksmith roared in laughter as he looked Elfhild up and down. "Maybe you will learn the way things go now. Dense fools are the Rohirrim, with heads as hard as oak casks! If your people had conquered mine, they would make us slaves, sure as anything! Perhaps you do not know it - and from the looks of you, there is not a brain in your foolish head - the ancestors of the allies of your country, the bastard Gondorians, took many slaves back to their island in the old days. Now they want everyone to think they are holy, but at heart they are no better than we are! Now, go wench, you have your collar. Wear it proudly!" He winked at her.

"I hate the accursed thing and I hate your accursed land and everything it represents!" Elfhild choked out, her lips aching and swollen from all the kisses which had been forced upon her.

"Not anything you can do about it," he smirked. "Whether you hate the collar or love it, there is one thing for certain - you will never be able to free yourself of it. Only your master can remove the iron band. No one will ever free you, though! Not a foul-tempered shrew such as you! Even with your legs spread wide and a man at your threshold, you would be as cold as the dead! Guard, take this impudent little whore out!"

"My pleasure, metal-smith," the remaining guard replied smugly as he strode over to Elfhild. "Come now, wench. Remember if you cause me any trouble, I will pull your dress up and blister your bottom with my bare hands! You might not like that, but I surely will."

As the guard escorted Elfhild to the door, the blacksmith called out, "You! Slave wench! Never again act like royalty with us! You are nothing but an ignorant village girl! You should take heart, though." He nudged his assistant and gave him a knowing look. "In addition to your new jewelry, you will soon have a pair of new shoes. Now you can never say that you walked into the Master's Kingdom upon bare and bruised feet. Guard, now get her out of here and slap her arse a few times for me!"

"Oh, I will, Master Smith, I will!" the guard guffawed. "Maybe a little more than a few slaps!"

"Bastards!" an enraged Elfhild yelled out. "Vile and detestable filth! I hate you all! May every one of your wretched days be a curse to you!"

The guard brought his hand back and slapped her bottom hard. "Hurry along," he ordered as he struck her again, "or we will stop on the way and have a little tumble behind one of the tents!"

As the guard disappeared with Elfhild, the massive smith chuckled softly. "Time for a little respite for our labors." He smiled as he wrapped a beefy arm fondly about his assistant's thin, scrawny shoulders. A high pitched laugh escaped the little man's chapped lips as he edged closer to his master, laying a hand upon one of his huge, trunk-like thighs.


	8. The Cobbler

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

With a threatening tap of the spear point on one of Elffled's maligned hips, the burly guard escorted the weeping girl through the open entrance of the tent.

"Cobbler! Here is another one for you to fit with your fine slippers! But mind you, make haste! The master slaver grows impatient at the endless delay! This one's sister has been detained by the blacksmith and his rogue. If either one of these wenches gives you any trouble, throw her over your knees, hoist up her skirt and lay the flail to her arse!"

"That will not be necessary." Intent upon tacking nails into the rims of the sole of a boot, the ruddy-faced, beardless young man paid scant attention to the guard and his charge. Absentmindedly, the cobbler flicked away a strand of light-colored hair that had strayed over one of his eyes.

"Volchok, I told you to hurry!"

"Patience, patience," the cobbler mumbled. "You just caused me to drop a nail." Carefully, he took another boot nail from his mouth. Without looking at the guard, he pounded the nail into the leather in one quick motion.

"Oh, hell!" the disgusted guard exclaimed. With a scowl at Elffled, he strode out of the tent.

Cupping his hand over his mouth, the cobbler spat the nails out and wiped his mouth off on the back of his hand. He glanced at Elffled for the first time. "These guards become tiresome after a while."

Head bowed, a tangled nest of hair falling over her face, Elffled stood, her shoulders softly trembling. Her lips felt swollen and fat from the kisses of the five guards, her breasts ached from the rough fondling which they had received from careless paws, and her bottom stung from the many pinches which had been delivered there. Even though her body reeked after almost a month without a bath, every part of her felt defiled and corrupted by a different type of taint. She was very, very frightened now, her thoughts swimming with dread at what would befall her next.

"Now, now, what do we have here? Crying?" the lanky young man murmured soothingly as he rose to his feet and walked over to her. "Will you not look at me? No, I see that you will not. Things must have gone badly for you! Come now, look up. I will not harm you."

Cautiously, Elffled raised her head, afraid of what would happen to her if she did not.

"Yes, I see that you did have an unpleasant time! Sit down at the stool over there by my work table."

With an uncertain look at him, Elffled shuffled over and sat down as a small sob escaped her lips. She closed her eyes and waited for the next indignity, cringing as a damp piece of cloth was pressed to her bruised lips.

With a defiant Elfhild walking in front of him, another guard swaggered through the tent opening. "Next customer, Volchok... Idling again, are you? As usual, I see you are not tending to business."

"I do not lose sleep fearing that I will be dismissed from my employment, my good fellow, for my services are indispensable! Now go away and leave me in peace, or you just might find that your next pair of boots pinch your feet!"

"Damned Rhûnian!" the guard swore under his breath and stalked out the tent.

"Sit down, lady, please, by your sister." He surveyed Elfhild's angry, tear-streaked face. "Yes, it is obvious that you are twins... I think you look even a worse sight than does she!"

"T - the guard," Elffled stammered, "are you not afraid of him?"

"No, why should I be?" Both eyebrows quirked upward in a questioning gaze. "We are both employed by the same trading establishment. I make his boots!" the young man laughed. Taking the wet cloth, he gently wiped her face. "Feel better?"

"Oh, yes, sir!" she replied, more glad for the kindness than she was for the cleansing moisture.

"Now your sister needs proper attention." Volchok dabbed gently at Elfhild's debased lips and then moved the cloth to her grime-covered cheeks. "Both your faces are very dirty," he murmured, "and I suspect that the two of you are infested with lice. Allow me to ascertain whether my assumptions are correct or not." As he bent over and peered at her filthy locks, he held up a few strands of her hair to the light and examined at them closely.

"Just as I thought. Your hair is crawling with vermin. Your scalps must itch unbearably!" The young man hastily wiped his finger off with the moistened cloth and tossed the rag aside. Both girls blushed in humiliation and embarrassment. "With so many captives, there are no provisions for washing here, but I assure you that the establishment will see that your bathing will be attended to in time... and your infestation will be eradicated with the administration of oil. Just try to be patient and bear with it a little longer. The Southrons and Easterlings are fastidious people for the main part. They insist upon cleanliness, and their custom is to take a number of baths a day whenever possible."

Of course, all the slaves had become plagued with lice over the duration of the journey. People forced to be kept together in close contact for days become prone to parasites and diseases. The orc guards constantly scratched themselves, sometimes furiously digging their clawed fingers under their helms and leather armor. No one was surprised when the fiendish little insects had eagerly sought the tender hides of their new hosts, for their skin was far more delicate than the orcs.

Though they did not put so much importance upon cleanliness as did the Easterlings and Southrons, the Rohirrim had always taken pride in their appearance, and slovenliness such as this was an alien thing to them. The peasant women mixed herbs with the bed straw to drive away parasites. The craftsmen of the Mark were skilled at carving fine combs of wood and bone, for most everyone tried to keep well-groomed hair and beards. A number among the Rohirrim had even retained the old ways of the North and constructed saunas for relaxing steam baths.

Like those of most of the captives, the scalps of Elfhild and Elffled were teeming with lice, and Elfhild longed to dig at her tormented pate. Why did the cobbler have to remind her of the unwelcome presence of the infernal blood-sucking host?

Volchok shook his head. "While many among the Southrons and Easterlings are civilized men of good taste, the guards, however, are a totally different proposition. They are mostly ruffians, as you two have found out yourselves. However, in a time of war, where can men of quality be found for such work? My employers are reputable men, but they are forced to accept unsavory sorts of the baser lot."

Elffled tested her lips by rubbing one against the other, and while they still ached and stung, the liquid had done much to refresh them. "Do you mean, sir, that these guards are not of the military?"

"Oh, no, certainly not!" The young man seemed most eager to right her misconception. "You have seen the last of the military... at least for a while. The orcs who brought you down from the North received their pay yesterday, and the whole lot of you was transferred to a civilian slave trading establishment based in Nurn."

"I guessed as much," Elfhild replied bitterly. "So these armed guards are in the employ of the slavers?"

"Correct." Volchok walked to the side of the tent where he took a wineskin which was hanging from a peg on one of the supporting beams. "Drink," he commanded as he placed the mouthpiece to Elffled's abused lips.

"Thank you," she whispered as she drank.

His friendly blue eyes looked into hers. "Drink again."

"No more, please."

"Now you, my lady." He moved the stem of the wineskin to Elfhild's mouth.

The cobbler had called them "my lady." How long had it been now since they were referred to by that polite address? "Perhaps there is some trick to this," Elfhild thought warily. She was at last learning that not everything was as it first appeared in this strange new world which had been forced upon them. The experience with the scribe had been quite an enlightening one, and now she began to question that which first seemed innocent.

When Volchok was certain that the sisters had drunk their fill, he returned the wineskin to its peg. On his way back to them, he stopped by his work table and brought back a cobbler's measuring device.

"Now for the fitting of your shoes." He knelt in front of Elffled, and after taking her worn shoes from her feet, he tossed them to a great pile of equally battered footwear. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, he looked up to her. "How long has it been since you last had a bath?"

"Maybe a month." She bowed her head in shame.

Volchok coughed politely. "I have grown used to the stench of sour feet, and it does not bother me at all, I assure you." Coughing frequently, he quickly finished the fitting and turned to her sister.

"Your feet smell even riper than your sister's, but you do have very trim ankles," he murmured as he ran his hand up and down her ankles and calves. "Forgive me, but I do have a fancy for well-shaped feet, and yours are quite lovely." He quickly removed her shoes, and after tossing them to join the rest of the mangled, odoriferous pile, he applied the measuring device to each foot.

"Just a moment, just a moment. I will find boots to fit you both." He rose to his feet and walked to a section of bins. After searching through several containers, he extracted two pairs of low-topped boots, and, reaching to a shelf above, he pulled down two pairs of stockings.

The guard stuck his head inside the tent once more. "Volchok, are you about finished?"

"Not quite," the cobbler raised his voice to reply. "Soon, soon."

"Ten minutes, no more!"

"Make that fifteen. Go out and find someone else to pester."

"Volchok, I warn you..." the guard mumbled as he left.

"Lady," the cobbler knelt down again at Elffled's feet, "I promise you that no matter how much I might adore women's feet, I will keep my hands where they belong when I try these boots upon you."

Elffled closed her eyes and trembled slightly as her skirts were slid up to rest atop her knees. The cobbler began humming as he tended to her feet. He used both hands to ease the stockings up on first one foot and then the other, and then fastened the hose securely with a garter. He picked up her foot and slipped the boot over it, securing the ties. Soon both sisters were admiring their new boots.

"I must offer you my condolences. This is not my best work. I must make the shoes ahead of time so that they will be ready. Alas, there is no time to assure the best fitting shoes for you or the color, and there is only one style." His brows knitted together, Volchok frowned as he looked at the boots.

Elfhild regarded the cobbler for a moment. He seemed to be a better sort than were the blacksmith, his assistant or the guards, even if he was a little too interested in their feet. "At least this one seems polite... but one never knows about these folk."

Finishing with the fitting of their stockings and boots, the cobbler stood up. "Do you like music?"

"Yes, sir," Elfhild replied courteously.

"Then I will sing a little tune which I made up myself. I call it 'My Faraway Home.'" And in a deep, baritone voice, he began to sing in Common Speech.

centerWandering to places through fair and foul weather  
Often my mind travels while I work with the leather  
My thoughts take me often to lands where I roam  
Walking through places so far from my home

Rhûn is my country, where there dwell my kin  
Sheltered, protected, far from the common din  
Will you come with me and journey afar  
Charting our path by the great northern star?

What can I promise under far northern sky  
Wonders beyond measure; delight to the eye  
There dwells the stag, the ox of great fame  
And wild folk and free that no one can tame!

And when winter grows dark and the nights are cold  
We listen to tales of warriors stout and bold!  
Our kindred about us, our hearth warm and near  
We sing and we dance and raise tankards of cheer!

Some men long to journey to the Western Sea  
But such unknown places hold no treasure for me  
So dream of your sprites, your sea-maids so fair  
All are illusions and baubles of air

I want only my people, my King and my home  
If I have only this, I will nevermore roam!  
What do I need but the great Inland Sea  
A hut, some furs and a warm wench with me!

I am no bard who labors for money and ale  
But just a poor cobbler with many a tale  
I promise you nothing, a story, a song  
And my company on nights that are wearisome long!/center

"Did you like my song?" he looked at them from questioning blue eyes.

"Oh, yes, sir," Elfhild smiled, grateful for this distraction from the humiliating incident in the blacksmith's shed "We have not heard a song - a good song - in ages, only the croaking of orcs."

Her mind muddled and distracted, Elffled had heard little of the man's singing, and it had passed by as nothing more than an indistinct mumble. How could she concentrate on frivolous matters, such as quaint songs and tales of other lands? She could think of nothing but the nightmarish visit to the blacksmith's shop. Her swollen, ravished lips ached and throbbed, and she could still feel the rough touches of the guards, as though the imprint of their foul, groping hands had been branded into her flesh. Though the cobbler's tune was a merry one, she did not raise her eyes to look at him and stared aimlessly at the ground.

"Sir, where is Rhûn?" Elfhild ventured hesitantly.

"Far to the northeast of where we are now, where lies the inland body of water known as the Sea of Rhûn. Though many of those in Rhûn have blonde hair and blue eyes, we are no kin to you. Indeed, my people are enemies of yours and have been since ancient times. Of course," he reflected, "mayhap some of my ancestors took wives of your women. I am glad that they did, or I would not have been here today." He flashed them a mischievous, almost boyish, grin. "But we are of a diverse stock, encompassing many tribes and peoples. No one knows from whence we came, but I would wager our origins are somewhere even farther to the East or South." He paused and looked at them kindly. "I trust that the song pleased you. Common Speech is not my own language, as you can readily see!"

"Your singing was wonderful, nevertheless," Elfhild smiled amiably. After the loathsome blacksmith and his assistant, she found it comforting to speak with someone who seemed friendly and well-mannered.

"Compliments and appreciation for my music must be acknowledged." Volchok bowed in a sweeping, courtly manner. "Ic thancie the." His face lit up in a broad grin, but somewhere deep within his blue eyes stirred a hint of mystery and intrigue which passed as quickly as it had come. "Aye, I know some of your language! I have learned dialects and tongues, and have traveled divers places in my labors. Many people call me by name. Perhaps I shall see you again. You never know when you might need a new pair of shoes."

Elfhild's heart skipped a beat after hearing her own language spoken by an outsider. Few understood the tongue of the Rohirrim, for many considered the language as archaic and uncouth. Not even the folk of Anórien cared to become fluent in Rohirric. Perhaps this man had learned a few words from other prisoners from her land.

"Maybe," Elfhild replied, "but in better circumstances, I hope."

"We can always wish for that," he smiled.

The guard looked inside the tent and glared. "Can you hurry it up a little? It is not that we have all day!" he grumbled.

"Patience, good man," the cobbler replied curtly.

The young man sat back down at the bench and spoke in a low voice, once again in their language. "You have passed the worst of it now and will soon be leaving the city. You might say that this was the most difficult part, for here is where you commence your learning."

Wondering at the sympathetic demeanor of the Rhûnian and his curious skills at speaking the language of Rohan, Elfhild nodded gravely. Elffled paid little heed to the man, for her gaze was still locked upon the boot-beaten ground.

"I am sorry for your plight. I hope you are sent to Rhûn; it will be far better for you there."

"If the folk of Rhûn who prove to be as kind as you, then it is my earnest hope as well," Elfhild whispered back.

"May fate be with you." He glanced at the entry to the tent.

"Farewell, most worthy Master Cobbler and bard of many songs," she bid graciously. "Thank you for your sympathy and your kindness."

He smiled at her. "You never know when friends, both new and old, will be about. Take comfort in what joys you can find along the way."

Brandishing his spear, the surly guard returned to the inside of the tent. "You have had enough time! Now come along and stop this idling!"

Both sisters quickly scrambled to their feet, and Elfhild curtsied before the mysterious cobbler. "Friends are always good to have," she whispered. "Farewell!"

"Beoth ge gesunde," the cobbler replied, bowing to them.

"Stop talking and start walking!" the guard muttered as he herded the girls forward, his metal-tipped spear ever at the ready.

**NOTES**

"Ic thancie the" - "I thank you" (Old English)

"Beoth ge gesunde" - "Be you safe, healthy, prosperous" (Old English)


	9. A Lesson in Business

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

_"Still, you may at least disturb the Orcs and Swarthy Men from their feasting in the White Tower."_  
_- Hirgon, "The Muster of Rohan," The Return of the King, p. 73_

Servants bowed at the opening of Shakh Awidan's pavilion to welcome the masterful personage who approached. Graceful in spite of the bulk of his well-muscled body, a tawny-skinned man strode into the entry, his green and yellow robes swirling about him like a sandstorm in the desert. The man, a masterpiece of the Haradric race, sported a black mustache and short, well-groomed beard which was fragrant with perfumed oil. Atop his head was a white turban, at its center a small aigrette composed of egret feathers caught by a ruby brooch, and at his side gently swung a sheathed scimitar.

"Blessings unto you and welcome to my dwelling, Shakh Esarhaddon uHuzziya," smiled Awidan as he arose from the red and gold damask cushions where he had been reclining. Bowing from the waist, he brought the fingers of his right hand to his breast, then to his lips and finally to his forehead.

Two fair-skinned, raven-tressed Gondorian slave women, who had been standing on either side of Awidan, ceased plying their long-plumed feathered fans. Bowing their heads, they crossed the poles over their bosoms in obeisance to the guest. At the sight of the handsome, tawny shakh who was visiting with their frail master, the women felt their sensitive nipples swelling, the jutting nubs straining against the flimsy material of their gowns. Their dark, sultry eyes, which were modestly downcast, rose wistfully to gaze across the tent at the display of Southern manliness before them. The guest's raging vigor stood in sharp contrast to the wizened countenance of their pathetic lord.

"Silim, Shakh Awidan lûk-Nysmr." The newcomer touched his heart and inclined his head. "May good fortune always seek you out and find you. I am greatly honored to be with you today."

"Pray sit down, Shakh Esarhaddon, and enjoy the hospitality of my home." Awidan motioned to deep cushions surrounding a low table on the floor. "All that you see before you is yours." He made a sweeping flourish with his right hand.

"Your courtesy is without limits, Shakh," Esarhaddon replied as he sat down cross-legged on the other side of the table from Awidan. "I could use a draught of that wine you served last night. Do you have any more of it?"

"Aye," Shakh Awidan replied eagerly. "I have a goodly supply of bottles packed in snow carried down from the high mountains. 'Tis a good vintage, tart but still smooth to the taste."

"Such a cooling draught would be welcome to wash the dust from my mouth. The excellence of your table continues to amaze me, Shakh Awidan." He smiled, his eyelids drooping lazily over his dark brown eyes.

Shakh Awidan clapped his hands, a summons for the slave men waiting near the side of the tent. "Galuech, go out to my storage cellar and bring us a bottle. Make sure that the snow still clings to it when you draw it from the cool recesses of the sawdust pit." His eyes darted to the other slave. "Hunethon, fetch more cakes and candied fruits for our guest."

Soon the men had returned with sweetmeats and wine. Their tasks finished for the time, the two slaves retired quietly to the side of the tent to wait for their master's next command.

"You plan to sell those two with this lot?" Esarhaddon asked as he picked up his goblet, toying with the vessel in his hand before bringing it up to his lips.

"Nay, Shakh, not with this consignment, for their incisions have not yet completely healed. Besides that, I would not trust them to be alone with any lord's women at this time. Though they are no longer capable of siring children, they still could easily pleasure some lord's concubines with their fingers and tongues! They are the deceitful, decadent men of the West, and you know how perverse they can be! Whippings and the absence of their stones will eventually gentle them, but for now they cannot be trusted. But, aye, when I judge them sedate, I will part with the both of them, for they will bring good prices." Shakh Awidan looked disapprovingly over at the two Gondorian eunuchs.

Esarhaddon glanced at the large platter of food and chose a dried date, studying Awidan as he chewed the fruit. After swallowing, he sipped slowly from his goblet of wine. "I was impressed with the manner that you used in dealing with the orcs; especially was I pleased with how little you paid them."

"I am a good businessman, Shakh," the slightly-built man exhaled in satisfaction, pleased that at last the powerful shakh had recognized his abilities.

Esarhaddon's eyes flickered for a moment and then the heavy lids slid halfway over his dark orbs, settling there like half-closed drapes. He surveyed the platter of dried fruits as though he were intently appraising them. Turning his head, he gave the other man a languid look, his eyelids lowering even more, and it appeared that he was on the verge of sleep.

"I am surprised, though, that the louts did not turn mean on you and slit your throat. You cheated them, Awidan, blessings upon you! You cheated them soundly! Well done, man! Well done!" Esarhaddon reached across the table and clasped Awidan's shoulder. "You are indeed a shrewd businessman! I will tell my brother Zannanza of how you euchred them. You wore the bastards out with your usual long dissertations about your 'ailments' and how you are 'greatly put upon' and 'long-suffering.'"

"Certainly." The older man humbly bobbed his head in agreement. "One must use many methods when concluding a business transaction. That is part of the satisfaction of bargaining: the talk that goes with it. I never feel that I have sealed a truly good agreement until I have had a great deal of wine and much conversation."

"You mean you exhaust them with your endless complaints about your health," laughed Esarhaddon.

"Every tactic is fair in war and trade," Awidan smirked, waving his hand in a grandiose gesture. After taking a draught from his goblet, he belched loudly, showing his appreciation of the good vintage. Reaching to a platter of mounded fruit, he inspected the selection and thoughtfully drew out a candied fig. "Luscious!" he exclaimed, smacking his lips and eying his wine once again.

Esarhaddon raised his glass into the air. "To good markets and rich profits! ...And to your good sense, Awidan, that has prevented you from never attempting that stratagem upon me."

"Never would I try to deceive you in business. You are like a brother to me!" An injured expression came to Awidan's eyes, and he held his hands out, palm upward in a posture of supplication and resignation. A little wine sloshed out of his goblet and fell unnoticed upon the table.

"Only because I am too shrewd ever to enter into a transaction with you," Esarhaddon murmured, raising his hands in imitation of the other.

Awidan laughed. "Only one merchant truly knows another."

"Or a merchant who has been cheated by another merchant," the other offered and they both chuckled.

"It is only good business."

"Awidan, to be a wise businessman, one must consider all things. Whatever we do in our dealings with other countries is our own concern, and we will ask whatever the market will bear. If the sheep sometimes find that their skins have taken along with their fleeces, that is the result of their own stupidity." Esarhaddon smiled lazily, his eyes almost closing completely.

"Aye, Shakh. The bulk of the traffic of the esteemed establishment of you and your brother - of which I am proud to be but a small cog in the great wheel - is conducted in Harad and Khand." The old man leaned back on the cushions, his hand brushing the thigh of one of the slave women.

"True enough, Awidan, but here, though, we must deal with Mordor." Esarhaddon sighed. "It is only by the grace of the Lord of This Land that we are allowed this privilege. Almost one hundred percent of the male slaves are never offered for lease to the lords and merchants. Of those few who are, most are generally employed in the work parties that plant, tend and harvest the crops of the nobles. The Lord of Mordor is most generous when it comes to granting leases for women, though - there, we are entitled to around eighty percent of the wenches to retransfer." The sleepy-eyed Southron signaled for the slaves to refill his goblet. "There is great wisdom in this, for it is an equitable way to distribute those spoils gained in war, as well as reward the faithful. Let us be glad that the Lord of Mordor still allows a form of free trade."

"Of course, Shakh, I am always grateful and pay my taxes and tributes faithfully and on time." Awidan's hand slowly crept up the slave girl's thigh.

"Awidan, let us be glad for the rich lords and merchants of Nurn from whom we make our profits." Catching the eyes of the two striking dark-haired beauties, Esarhaddon smiled lazily at them. Even the slightest upturning of his lips was more than they could ever hope for, and their hearts fluttered in their bosoms at the excitement of being rewarded with his attention.

Only a slight frown showed Shakh Awidan's resentment at the interest his women were paying the other slaver. There was little, though, that he could say or do, for he was employed by the Shakh's trading establishment.

"Shakh Awidan, although all seems blessed and good, rumors have come to me that you have hinted to certain lords that they might buy slaves directly from you, thus saving them the effort of dealing with my brother and me. I am grieved, my friend, I am grieved!" Esarhaddon bowed his head, holding his temples. "Even worse, there have been other rumors, unbelievable intimations that you buy from rebel bands of orcs, using the name of the marketing firm of my brother and me. Of course," he smiled as he stroked a huge signet ring on his right hand, "I do not listen to idle tales."

Awidan's beard bobbed as he swallowed painfully, a worried expression wrinkling his brow. "Never, Shakh, never would I endorse such a crooked scheme!"

"Of course not, Shakh," Esarhaddon's voice rolled out like perfumed oil from a golden phial, "you would never do such a thing... Your wine is very good, you know. I toast your good taste and drink to your continuing good health."

"Certainly, certainly, Esarhaddon. I am an honest man!" Aziru's expression was as offended as a young child who had been punished unfairly.

"Yes, I know you are," Esarhaddon smiled benignly. Suddenly one of his hands shot out across the table, grasping the other man's beard in his strong fist. His eyes wide with fear, Awidan shrieked as Esarhaddon drew a wicked curved dagger and pressed the edge to his throat. Screaming and dropping their fans to the floor, the two women quickly scurried to the other side of the tent.

"Why, Esarhaddon?" Awidan cried, his whole body shaking, his eyes bulging out with terror.

"Because I believe in fair business practices!"

"I am an honest man!" Awidan squealed out his innocence.

"Yes, Shakh," Esarhaddon's deep voice came out in a whisper, "and I want to keep you that way. Any more rumors like that, Awidan, and your wives in Harad will be receiving a special gift from me - your head, prick and balls in a wicker basket." Slowly the edge of the knife trailed across the skin of the underling's thin throat, drawing a slight trickle of blood.

"Mercy upon me, Master, take mercy upon this miserable wretch!" Awidan sobbed, tears streaming down his face.

His dark eyes boring into those of the other man, Esarhaddon held Awidan's face close to his, keeping his grip on his beard. Then jerking Awidan forward as he leaned back, Esarhaddon let the whimpering man fall with a crash upon the table.

"On your knees, Awidan!" Esarhaddon growled. "Kiss the sole of my foot like the dog that you are!"

"Mercy! Mercy!" Awidan cried as he crawled across the floor to the feet of Esarhaddon, who turned up one foot slightly.

"I want you to understand this, Awidan - I can abide a little cheating, even bribery, but never use the name of Huzziya in any prohibited dealings!"

Perspiration gleaming on his forehead, Awidan knelt on the floor, embracing the other slaver's foot and kissing the sole.

"Go back and sit down, Shakh. You look strained." Disgusted, Esarhaddon slipped his dagger back in its sheath. "And call your wenches. Let them stir the air with their fans; it is rank with the stench of your sweat."

"Anything you wish, my lord! The life of this worthless jackal is yours!" Knowing how close he had come to death, Awidan crawled backwards to his cushion and, shaking, he placed himself back on it. He turned to the two cowering women. "Take up your tasks again, Meril and Lothwen!"

"Yes, O Gracious Lord!" they murmured demurely as they moved gracefully back towards the table. How each one wished that Esarhaddon would kill the doddering old man and claim them for his own!

As they walked, Lothwen whispered breathlessly, "Just one look from his sensual eyes and my loins grow wet! How I wish a master like that owned us!"

"Oh, to have a real man like that make love to us, instead of that whining invalid!" Meril sighed wistfully.

"Shhh, be quiet! We approach them!"

Bowing gracefully, they reached down to recapture their fans, resuming the slow pumping of the handles. As each woman cast sideways smiles to the other, they diffidently dropped their gaze down towards the floor.

"Awidan, I have not quite concluded the discussion of our business, and besides I have neither finished my wine nor partaken of all of the tempting delicacies that you have arrayed upon your table." His eyes sent glances to Lothwen and Meril which brought shivers tracing up their spines, causing the heat which burnt between their legs to flame even higher. "If I had more time, I would enjoy all the sweetmeats that your dwelling has to offer."

"Shakh!" Awidan exclaimed. "All that I have is yours!"

"How generous, my friend," Esarhaddon replied, his heavy-lidded eyes focusing upon the heaving chest of Meril.

Awidan cleared his throat, resigning himself to the prospects of sharing his favorite women. Nervously, he called to the slave man, "Galuech, refill our goblets!"

"Let us finish our discussion, Shakh Awidan lûk-Nysmr."

"As my lord wishes," the older man nodded respectfully.

"We shall have a long, beneficial and profitable partnership," Esarhaddon smiled darkly as he lifted his goblet in the air.

"Yes, my lord, we shall," Awidan agreed, all the while silently praying to every tribal deity whose name came to his mind and hastily adding the Two Dark Gods just to be certain. He licked his dry lips and hesitantly asked, "Is the caravan prepared which will take the Rohirric slave women and children to their destination?"

"Aye," affirmed Esarhaddon. "We await only the completion of the collaring, and then we will be away. But it is a month-long journey to the Doraz Uzg-u Bhoghâtug-ob Turu, the Gate to the Land of Many Blessings. The supply wagons are packed with every conceivable thing we might need, except water. After we cross the Anduin, the water wagons will be replenished. As you know, we must keep a tight watch upon the supply."

"You make a worthy partner for your brother," Awidan flattered, hoping to return himself to Esarhaddon's good graces. He knew though that once the slaver became suspicious of a person, that man would never be in his confidence again.

"Your compliments are sweet words to my ears, Shakh Aiwdan, but now the time has come for me to leave your hospitality and begin the journey." Esarhaddon leaned over the table and picked up a candied date from a tray. "Very good fruit, Awidan!" he exclaimed. "However, you make leaving more difficult."

"Only the best for my employer's brother," he simpered. Then bowing his head, he placed his right hand over his heart and extended it in a rolling motion outward to Esarhaddon. "Take another, take another! And the raisins! Do not forget them! They are succulent and sweet!"

"There is time for another taste," Esarhaddon smiled as he picked up a date and put it in his mouth.

As Awidan watched Esarhaddon, who seemed in little hurry to leave his tent, he grew increasingly more alarmed. He knew that the fiend was enjoying his discomfort and would stretch out the torture as long as he could. Perhaps he could get the Shakh into a better mood by distracting him.

"My friend, before you leave you can surely tell me how you liked the two wenches I gave you last night?" Awidan stroked his beard, his dark eyes gleaming lecherously.

"Sadly to say, Awidan, though the generosity of your bountiful heart overcomes me with appreciation, neither girl was satisfactory." Esarhaddon sighed heavily.

"Then I will have them whipped!" Awidan exclaimed, raising his fist.

"My good friend," Esarhaddon spoke languidly, "there is no need of that. The girls had only been deflowered the night before, and so they were not welcoming the experience." The tent had become so quiet that the droning of a fly was magnified tenfold. Looking around, the slaver continued. "When I arrived at the tent you loaned me, I was eager for some sport, but the girls shyly covered themselves up. They told me they had not yet grown accustomed to pleasuring men, and even as I undressed, they hid their faces beneath the covers. Perhaps you heard them scream when I widened their newly ploughed channels. Though through it all they lay as though they were dead, when I finished with them, they begged me to stay." The slaver glanced to Awidan, who seemed to be barely breathing, his face a sickly white. "Thus I was cheated, since they received far more pleasure from me than I did with them!" He looked sadly at the other man. "Awidan, you say you consider me as a brother. Why then did you not offer the skilled artistry of Meril and Lothwen?" He winked mischievously at the two women, and the rising and fall of the great feathered fans halted in their courses as the pair tittered.

"Esarhaddon, my friend, I only gave them to you because I thought that you prefer young flesh! Have mercy upon the two wenches and my reputation! I implore you!" Pulling a handkerchief from his sleeve, he mopped his heavily perspiring face.

"Never make the mistake of trying to think for me, Shakh Awidan. When I return, I will try the charms of Meril and Lothwen. Of course," he chuckled, looking benevolently at the older man, "next time you will offer me my choice and not yours." He gave Awidan a stern look, his narrowed eyes glittering.

"Next time, my lord Esarhaddon - I swear to you upon the memory of my ancestors! - I will have women for you that will delight even your discriminating tastes! Women from Far Harad, ebony-skinned, dark eyes glowing with desire! Women from the northernmost parts of Rhûn clad in sumptuous furs and nothing more! Gondorian and Umbarian women with heads held high, haughty and proud of their ancestry, challenging to tame! Icy blondes and warm redheads from Rohan, women with great, bulging breasts and nipples as pink as rosebuds! The mysterious, doe-eyed beauties of Khand whose teeth are like pearls against their tawny faces! The shy, porcelain-skinned daughters of the Golden Lords of the Far East who know more positions than we could ever dream possible! You would think you were tasting the joys of the afterlife while still upon the earth!"

Then as a sudden thought hit him, Awidan shook his head sadly and looked down at the table. "No Elves, unfortunately. They are impossible to obtain, for they are sent straight to the Tower after they are captured. In any event, they die so quickly that they are scarcely worth the effort. As for the women of those small races from the Northwest, few will have them save those with the most exotic of tastes."

"Perhaps I should delay my trip to Nurn and sample these wonders before I go, but, unfortunately, that cannot be done!" Esarhaddon lamented, rising to his feet. "Now, I must leave you, Shakh Awidan. Should the war continue, my plans are to return here in a few months."

"Farewell, blessings upon you and your house, Shakh Esarhaddon uHuzziya!" the old man exclaimed as he stood up, glad that at last his superior was going. "Before you leave, I will see that an ample supply of wine from my own cellar and assorted sweetmeats from my larder are packed in one of your supply wagons. I even have almonds and pistachios! Take them as a gift for you and your brother. May the Two Lords be with you on your journey and smile upon you!"

Esarhaddon placed his right hand upon his heart and extended it outward towards Shakh Awidan. "May your days be forever and the sons of your loins be without number! Farewell, my friend, Awidan lûk-Nysmr. Until a few months! May fortune smile upon you!"

"May the goods that your caravans hold bring you rich rewards, Shakh Esarhaddon uHuzziya!"

Flashing a smile of perfect teeth, Esarhaddon nodded and left the tent.

When the man was gone, Awidan stared mournfully into his goblet of wine and then turned to Meril and Lothwen. "Since you seemed to prefer his company to mine, I should have given both of you to him," he muttered in disgust. "But," he smirked, "had you lain with him, I do not think that the delicate skin on your backs and bottoms would have remained so smooth and unblemished. They say Shakh Esarhaddon Efendi is a cruel man who enjoys flailing the flesh off the backs of wenches who do not please him!"

"Master," Meril murmured, "I do not think we would have disappointed him."

"No, Master," Lothwen smiled from beneath dark lashes, "the Shakh would have found pleasure in our arms."

"Gondorian strumpets!" Awidan cursed as he slammed his goblet down on the low table, sending a good part of its contents splashing across the table.


	10. An Unwelcomed Edict

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

_"The greatest happiness is to vanquish your enemies, to chase them before you, to rob them of their wealth, to see those dear to them bathed in tears, to clasp to your bosom their wives and daughters."_  
_- Genghis Khan_

Cursing, the green-clad guard quickly herded Elfhild and Elffled away from the row of pavilions and out to the open area of the slave compound. Chains were snapped into the front and back rings of the girls' collars. Like leashed hounds in tandem, Elffled was chained behind Leofgifu, while Elfhild came next in the coffle. Murmuring softly to herself, the unfortunate Breguswith walked as a sleeper, innocently babbling questions to everyone she saw, until the guards' firm hands guided her to stand behind Elfhild in the long column of slaves.

The design of the system was ingenious, providing for a slave to be removed from the column and the links quickly joined together again. It was thought that this method was merciful and convenient, for each slave would bear only two lengths of lightweight chain, thus sparing the prisoners' necks the burdensome task of bearing one long heavy line strung through the rings of the collars.

The hot summer sun beat down upon Elfhild's shoulders and flamed upon her hair, turning it a glistening cream. She heard the soft strains of Breguswith's humming behind her and recognized the melody as a lullaby, a song sung to the memory of her dead baby. The chain clanked as Elffled impatiently stamped her feet and shifted her body. A subtle vibration coursed from one end of the line to the other as the captives restlessly moved about, unaccustomed to the awkward iron bands and chains about their necks.

Guarding the column were tawny and swarthy men, wearing rich green livery, and fifteen or so half-breed uruks, all armed with both spear and scimitar. None of the men or orcs were in military uniform, though some of the orcs' garments looked to be a mixed collection of well-used jerkins and vambraces of boiled leather combined with mannish dress. About the shoulders of some of the half-breeds were worn and faded cloaks of fine material and well-cut design, gifts, perhaps, from their masters when the garments were no longer of use to them.

"All right, now," one of the guards ordered, "make this line straighter and try to keep your squalling offspring quiet! We await the Slave-master!"

The captives had been waiting about an hour when they saw two horsemen ride up on fine prancing horses of the Haradric desert. One man was mounted on a sorrel and the other, a larger man, rode a chestnut mare. Both horses were arrayed in the brightly colored trappings of the South, the tassels on bridles and saddles bouncing with every hoof fall.

"Bow low to the ground," the guards, both man and orc, ordered the captives, and the women bowed from the waist. "Nar!" the guards bellowed. "The Master will not be pleased at such disrespect. Kneel and touch your foreheads to the dirt! This is the way you are always to bow to your superiors! To do anything else does not show respect to the ones whom Fate has has seen fit to set above you!"

Tied and chained, the women struggled to lower themselves to their knees, trying to retain their balance and keep from toppling over. The chains tugged uncomfortably against their necks, and the captives felt clumsy and awkward. Those children young enough to have been kept out of the cruel bonds hovered about their kindred, trying to assist them as they struggled to do this forced obeisance.

As the two men drew nearer, the guards bowed from the waist and shouted, "Hail, Shakh Esarhaddon and Master Tushratta!"

"Greetings, stout lads," the heavier of the two men called out as the pair halted their horses a short distance away from the end of the line.

From her crouched position upon the ground, Elfhild raised her head to obtain a glimpse of these two important newcomers. Her eyes traveled up the chestnut legs of the horse, then over the saddle of the mare to the powerful rider who sat atop her back. Elfhild's heart fluttered as she realized just what a handsome man this mighty Southron was. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, a man in the prime and height of life. His tawny face was remarkably attractive, with unfathomable dark eyes edged by thick lashes; a majestic arched nose; a small brown mole under his right eye; full, sensual lips; and gleaming teeth white as pearls. Shining with life and vitality, his lush black beard had been trimmed neatly, dressed with perfume and pomade. She noted with almost gasping admiration his wide shoulders and broad chest. How strong he must be! ...And how very, very dangerous!

This devastatingly handsome Southron was dressed in richly brocaded yellow robes; a long, flowing green burnoose with tassels sewn to the hood; and baggy tan breeches. Upon his head was wound a white turban, the end flowing down his back and flapping gently in the breeze. Elfhild's admiring eyes went to the enormous ruby and spray of silvery feathers which crowned the magnificent headdress. Transfixed by the glittering jewel, she gazed at it in awe as it sparkled and glittered in the sun. She had never seen such wealth before, and such a blatant display of it astonished her peasant's mind. At last she wrenched her eyes away from the richly arrayed turban and surveyed the rest of the Southron's brawny form.

Upon his feet were the finest of kid leather riding boots, the points of each gracefully curving upward in the style of the East and South. Hanging from the wide belt at his thick middle was scimitar encased in a jeweled sheath. Elfhild shivered to think what damage that weapon could wreak upon his enemies. Such a blade could surely hew a man in half! Suddenly feeling quite small and defenseless, bound in chains and kneeling in the posture of submission as she was, Elfhild averted her gaze and looked at the great Southron's more modest companion.

She regarded the other man with far less enthusiasm, for, while the second man was taller, he was a slender, plain sort, not strong and muscular at all. This fellow was dressed far less ostentatiously, wearing a simple brown turban, tan tunic and burnoose, white breeches, and scuffed brown riding boots. Quickly losing interest, Elfhild's gaze returned to the first man - the mighty, robust one - before she lowered her head once more.

"Greetings, fair wenches, well met," greeted the slave-master. "You bowed splendidly, your breasts and foreheads touching the earth, your hair spilling down like lovely golden curtains, and your raised buttocks providing a most delightful initial impression! How beautifully you display yourselves before me! Since it was your first time, I am quite sure that it was difficult to humble yourselves in such a manner. I am pleased. You may rise now and give me a lovely smile in gratitude for this lesson which will benefit you for long years to come."

Resting his hand on the pommel, the slave-master leaned forward slightly in the saddle and watched as the slaves rose to their feet amidst a great clanking of the chains. Elfhild ventured another furtive glance at this powerfully-built man and wondered what sort he would be, whether he would prove kind or cruel. Probably it would be the latter - he spoke with the same mocking arrogance and boastful derision as did all the men and orcs of the Dark Land. Every last one of them took great delight in humbling and disgracing the captives, throwing salt into the wounds inflicted upon their pride by the defeat of the West and subsequent thralldom of its people. Elfhild sighed, feeling strangely melancholy. Why did such a handsome man have to be so heartless?

"Still I am displeased, for there are no smiles to greet your new master!" The man frowned. "I know none of your names as yet, but I will. Know you now that I am Esarhaddon uHuzziya of Harad. I am a dealer in slaves and other goods, holding contracts with the military commanders and the government of Nurn. You are now in the care and keeping of the House of Huzziya. Consider yourselves blessed!" Turning to the other man as though he were an afterthought, the slaver introduced, "This is my personal physician, Tushratta of Khand." The other man nodded to the women.

Esarhaddon's eyes roved up and down the line of slaves, gleaming when he saw a woman or girl who was especially desirable. "We will be journeying to the City of Turkûrzgoi, which is located in the Western Province of Nurn near the inland sea of Núrnen. We should arrive at the city in about a month." The sound of his forceful, heavily-accented voice terrified many of the younger children, who sought the security of their mothers' skirts, burying their heads and clutching the material. Some of the older boys, thinking murder in their hearts, boldly challenged him with their eyes and aggressive stance, but in his gaze they saw only mockery. Turning to the man beside him and saying a few words in the hated foreign tongue, the slave-master laughed. He waited while the guards quieted the slaves with threats and curses before continuing.

"At this present time, all of you are owned, body and soul, by the Lord of Mordor. However, being generous and far-thinking, He has magnanimously decreed that the majority of you will be leased to the nobles, plantation owners, merchants and manufacturing establishments of Nurn." He paused, allowing the captives to absorb what he had just said. "If you labor diligently and are loyal, willing servants, you might be able to earn enough money to buy your freedom. Once free, there is always the opportunity to become productive citizens of the imperial state. Others of you might find such favor with your masters that they will purchase your contracts from the Lord of Mordor, either keeping you as personal slaves or allowing you to go free. How fortunate all of you are that the Emperor is so generous to the families of those who have stirred up war against Him!" Smiling, he looked over the line of captives, ignoring the low murmurs and hostile glances that met his words.

Turning to the tall physician beside him, Esarhaddon conferred briefly with him before looking back to the captives. As he regarded the women from beneath half-closed eyes, he slowly flicked the tip of his riding crop against his thigh. "We will come to know each other quite well. Until you reach Nurn, I am your master, and you will answer to me before all others. In time, all of you will learn to rush to greet me, and your loving lips will delight to call me 'Master!'"

"Loving lips, indeed," Elfhild whispered the saucy retort to her sister. "Perhaps my lips will call him something, but it will be far from loving. I have no master!" She felt a thrill of excitement course through her at the thought of defying such a powerful man.

Elffled remained silent, still shaken by the horrors which had befallen her in the blacksmith's shed. How could her sister behave so flippantly after all that they had just endured? Those men could have raped both of them, each one taking his turn to commit the vile deed! She did not want to attract the attention of the slaver, who had far more authority than rude guards and loathsome blacksmiths.

"When I am away, you will yearn to hear my voice. You will feel yourself lost without my embrace as though you had been forsaken in a desert waste, abandoned, cast off, alone." His voice had changed in tone, becoming husky, more sensual, and he flashed them a sparkling grin. "You will hope in your hearts that the silhouette that appears upon the distant horizon is that of your adored master! Your womanly bodies will ache in need for my caresses, and for once in your lives, you will know what it is like to be ruled by a man!"

"What a pompous fool," Elfhild whispered, rolling her eyes at the man's boastful claims. The threat of danger was a powerful stimulant, making her heart race and butterflies flutter in her stomach.

"Please, Elfhild!" Elffled whimpered. "Do not get us in trouble again!"

"Dear priceless flowers of Rohan, Fate has decreed that I am to be your protector for a time. The orcs who will accompany us are the heroic veterans of many battles, and by virtue of the multitude of their injuries, they were decreed unfit for duty. Thus they are now in my employ." A mixture of cajolement and command, his deep voice rang with authority.

Thoughtfully stroking his beard, the slaver closely surveyed the captives. "Some of you perhaps - if your modesty, virtue and refinement can be attested, and if you are of sufficient beauty and talents - might find favor in my eyes and be chosen for my harem. Other women, eager for my plucking, might become overly ambitious and let their jealousy blight their better senses and ruin their chances. Though you might crave my affections, be warned - not all find favor in my eyes. I am most demanding of my women!"

"Arrogant Southron," Elfhild muttered with a haughty toss of her hair. "As if we would want to be anywhere near him!"

"Be quiet, Elfhild!" Bringing her foot backwards, Elffled kicked her sister in the shin. She felt a sense of satisfaction when she heard Elfhild's whimper of pain.

Growing restless, the slaver's spirited chestnut mare pranced and fidgeted, mouthing the bit and moving sideways with the slaver. "Steady, my treasure," he murmured to his mount. A skilled horseman, Esarhaddon soon had the mare steadied with a firm hand on the reins. As though noticing them for the first time, he pointed the riding crop towards a startled Elfhild and Elffled. "Though your beauty is unremarkable, you are still novelties, twins, a matched set of blonde wenches, your kind almost unknown in my land! Many a man would like to have you in his bed for that reason alone!"

At these shocking words, the captives looked to each other, murmuring their displeasure in low voices. The younger children could not understand their meaning, but the older children, having an instinctive knowledge, knew that his words insinuated something dark and perverse. They feared for the safety of their mothers, sisters, and other kinswomen.

"My sister is an idiot," a mortified Elffled thought, the chain the only thing keeping her from running away and hiding somewhere.

Esarhaddon looked down at the twins. "I heard your whispering and your muttering," he remarked in his powerful voice. "Do you think that you might be found worthy to be included in my harem? Do not delude yourselves, my little wildflowers, for only the most beautiful and talented of virgins are taken into my household. If you have spread your thighs for the stalwarts of your own land, there will be other uses for you, which you might not enjoy! Perhaps fate has destined that the two of you spend your days in the brothels!"

Her cheeks flaming and her body frozen stiff and cold, Elfhild gaped up at the Southron, her heart pounding wildly and her aquamarine eyes wide and fearful.

"What are your names?" the slaver demanded, riding his horse closer and lifting her chin up with the end of the bat.

"E - Elfhild," she stammered, struck by a sudden sickening sense of promnesia. She had been here before, in this very same situation... but it had been nearly a month before, and she had been kneeling before a king instead of standing before a Southern slaver.

"My n-name is Elffled, sir," the other sister timidly mumbled, bowing her head and lowering herself in a curtsy.

"Such harsh and grating foreign names! There is no softness to them, no melodic euphony to their sound!" Esarhaddon touched his ear and shook his head. "If you ever find favor with me, you will be given names pleasing to my ears."

From beneath half-closed lids, the dark eyes of Esarhaddon turned from them and surveyed the other captives. The twins breathed a sigh of relief when his gaze left them, and Elfhild cursed herself for her foolishness. She never should have been whispering... she winced when she thought of the stern scolding that she would surely receive from her aunt. But how could she accept her fate passively when every part of her being wanted to rebel against the enemies who had subjugated her and her people, to lash out against the hopelessness and despair that she felt when she considered all that she had lost?

Esarhaddon moved his mare up and down the line of prisoners, finally settling on a place midway between the columns of chained women. He cleared his throat and spoke louder. "Truly I am delighted, most delighted, to make your acquaintance, fine ladies of the North, and I trust our association shall be most pleasant. My men and I will watch over you on the journey and will see to your comfort. We do not expect you to be appreciative, but remember who it is that feeds you!"

A pleased expression highlighting his handsome face, Esarhaddon scanned the line of captives. Tired, restless and frightened, many of the children sobbed quietly. The misfortune-plagued Breguswith rocked back and forth, cooing soft lullabies and mumbling to a son who lived no more. Elfhild sighed as she felt the chain pulling back and forth on her collar as Breguswith moved incessantly. It would be a long day, and she reckoned that her neck would be sore and chafed by the end of it.

"You there," Esarhaddon pointed the riding crop at Waerburh, "what is your name?"

"Waerburh," the startled woman replied.

"Did you have a husband who claims your favors?"

"Yes, I did, and perhaps still do," she returned haughtily.

"No shy, modest maid then!" he exclaimed, his dark eyes gleaming as he appraised her handsome face and full figure. "Married women have knowledge and skills that maidens lack."

"My husband was a brave man and honorable," she countered as she looked up at him, a defiant expression on her face. "And I have been an honorable wife!"

"Any marriages contracted before capture are considered null and void now, and you are accounted as an unmarried woman."

"I will always be married to my husband!"

"Let a past that is dead be forgotten so that you may look forward to the future." He returned to his surveillance of the line.

Slowly the slaver's expression grew stern. "It is my most unfortunate task to inform you that though I am generous and magnanimous beyond all belief, I will brook no disobedience or attempts to escape. Some of the lads have brought their mates with them, and I assure you most fervently that those fine wenches can inflict torments that will make even a strong man quail. They have been trained to employ methods which leave no mark upon the flesh, only painful bruises which fade in time. As a matter of fact, I enjoy watching them as they dole out their chastisements... This is not to say that I cannot mete out my own form of punishment, which, perhaps," a reflective expression crossed his face, "might bring both pleasure and pain to those who receive it." Absently, he tapped the riding crop on the side of his leg.

The slave-master turned his gaze to the uruks and their females. "Do not be humble, lads. Step aside and show off your beauties."

Amid cat-calls from their mates, the she-orcs sauntered forward from the line of uruk guards. The male orcs were ugly enough, but their mates defied the classification of "female." Every visible part of their bodies had been mutilated with frightening piercings or marked with strange and hideous tribal tattoos, and all were clad in a bizarre conglomeration of military uniform and civilian dress, obviously commandeered from a wide variety of peoples. One obese she-orc wore a morbidly hilarious parody of armor which barely covered her massive mammary glands. Her outfit was complete with an embarrassingly tiny leather loincloth which revealed the muscular contours of her beefy, hair-covered thighs.

A strange and disturbing thought struck Elfhild's reeling senses, driving out everything else that was in her mind: had these loathsome creatures ever known love? Had the orc who slew her mother possessed such a - she could hardly bring herself to think it - mate? She had learned that he was a kinsman of the others in the raiding party, but she had never really thought of such matters before. What if he had... children? What did an orc baby look like? Probably a nasty little snapping thing... but still a baby. Elfhild grieved for her own mother; did an orc woman and child grieve for the raider whom she had slain? Was she guilty of inflicting the same sorrow upon others as the orc had brought her? Was she a cold-hearted killer? Or was she only trying to defend her home?

She must stop thinking about such maudlin things. Of course, they had no feeling. Everyone knew it. They were enemies, and all of them deserved to... to... be exterminated? No! She would never let herself think that. They were thinking creatures - their horrible attire proved that they had individual tastes and preferences - and they had the right to live just as anyone else. Elfhild's musings were interrupted by the hooting laughter of the female uruks as they paraded close to the captives.

"Ooh, dearies, don't be afraid. We won't 'urt you!" One of the female brutes strutted, swaying her hips suggestively, as her harsh, deep voice attempted a coy giggle.

"Don't you think we're pretty?" exclaimed another as she wiggled her hips and squeezed her massive breasts. "Everyone knows we are!"

"She's just jealous of me because I'm prettier than she is," insisted a third, whose ancestry was so muddled with orcish and mannish blood that she appeared almost human. She shot a saucy look towards the captives. "I might be the kinswoman of some of you. Breeding always tells! Just look at me 'air!" Jutting out her ample chest, she raised her arms towards the sky and tangled her fingers in her auburn mane before letting the tresses slowly and sensually fall back down. "My sire was an 'alf-breed from Isengard!"

"Do you see what I mean, women of the North?" Shakh Esarhaddon asked as he motioned for the female orcs to step back into the line. "In addition to their distinctive charms, these formidable beauties are outstanding warriors. Do not attempt to escape. The lads and their mates can smell your trail in a rainstorm. They can see by day and by night, but their eyesight is most exceptional when the shadows fall. When captives try to elude them, it makes them unhappy. They will think you do not like their company." He smiled his mocking smile as he looked up and down the line. "Learn the rule of discipline and we shall all get along superbly. Now it is time for us to be away. Lead them forth, guards," the slaver commanded, pointing his riding crop straight forward towards the road.

"March!" the head overseer ordered. At the front of the line, the guard jerked roughly on the lead chain, causing the two women in front to stumble. As the captives trudged forward, the slaver and the physician watched the sad procession begin another day's slow, dreary journey.


	11. Comforts and Concerns

Chapter Written by Elfhild and Angmar

Esarhaddon and Tushratta watched as the long line of Rohirric slaves plodded forward. The few Gondorian man-slaves - collared and chained as were the Rohirric captives - marched under heavy guard behind the Rohirrim. Walking unfettered behind the Gondorian thralls were tawny and swarthy skinned slaves - men, a few women, and boys - undoubtedly natives of the Eastern and Southern lands. These slaves laughed and chattered among themselves, obviously far freer than their Gondorian and Rohirric counterparts. Falling into line behind the long column was a train of enclosed wains, decorated in colorful paints and designs, two of them containing the slaver's harlots and their servants. Coming behind them were the supply wagons and the rear guard.

Satisfied that the column was in position, Esarhaddon and Tushratta urged their horses into a trot and quickly caught up with the line of Rohirric captives in front. Commanding the orcs to halt the line, Esarhaddon reined in his horse and scanned up and down the long procession.

"My fine ladies, the excellency of your beauty has been recognized, and each night, one or more of you will be awarded the high honor of serving me whilst I dine. As yet, I have not made my choice, so there is still hope for all of you. Until then, you may look forward with anticipation to the possibility of being chosen tonight."

Beside him, the physician Tushratta smiled knowingly. A sudden sinking feeling came over the captives old enough to understand. This green and yellow robed Southron was their master, at least for a time, and his control over his property was total. Their life or death he held in his tawny hands, and they knew that many of his designs for them were far from wholesome. There was a sense of finality in each mile that took them eastward, as though they were condemned felons walking the slow march to the gallows. Step by step, each plodding rise and fall of the foot brought them closer to the dreadful doom which lay just beyond the dark forms of the Mountains of Shadow. Slavery and then death. There would be no escape.

Elfhild lifted her head slightly and glanced back at the Gondorian slave men. Tears of sympathy pushed their way up and trickled down her face as she beheld once proud men now forced to toil for those against whom they had fought in the war. Her heart was filled with pity for their plight. What horrible tortures had these conquered warriors of Gondor been forced to endure at the hands of their enemies? The very thought was horrifying, for the folk of the Dark Lands were renowned for their cruelty.

And then the grim question came to her mind - what horrible tortures would ithey/i endure? Turning away from the men, Elfhild looked at her sister's back. A gruesome image rent her thoughts: she saw Elffled dying in a dank dungeon, her frail body shuddering in bitter agony after suffering endless disgraces and tortures unimaginable. The vision filled Elfhild with cold dread, for she knew she would be utterly helpless to save her sister from such an evil fate.

"What would be even worse," she thought grimly, allowing her morbid imagination to take flight, "would be if a kind man bought me, and I spent my days in his hall, doted on by servants and adored by my master, while Elffled languished in some prison, her body racked with pain!" More tears spilled down Elfhild's cheeks.

The previous night's rest had brought little relief for the captives, and they had awakened to sore, aching muscles and stiff joints. Many of the women and children began to limp as the morning wore on. The ill-fitting boots did little to comfort their feet or their spirits. Solemnly they marched, the only sounds being the tramping of their feet, the rattling of their chains, and the irritated reminders from their guards that they were going too slowly.

By evening, they had traveled a weary ten miles. Halfway between Minas Tirith and Osgiliath, the captives were ordered to a halt for the night. The Gondorian slaves were first to be loosed from their chains. Their ankles, though, were kept in shackles to hamper their walking and prevent their escaping. The overseers soon had them working to build cooking fires and fetch water for the pots.

"Move ahead, blonde wenches!" the uruks ordered the Rohirric captives as they herded them into a wide barren field. While some of the orcs guarded the women and children, others moved about the lines, unchaining the captives for the night. The process was a slow one, for there were fewer orcs now than there had been when the captives had been brought South, and many of the guards were busily engaged in setting up camp.

Since becoming prisoners, the captives had grown accustomed to the rhythm of breaking camp in the morning, halting briefly at noon, and continuing on until evening. Now their lives had been turned over to a new power - the Southern slaver and his men. Uncertain of what would be expected of them, the unfettered captives milled around aimlessly, almost like confused beasts. No longer under the steady scrutiny of the soldiers, some of the captives felt frightened, for the almost mechanical routine of their existence had been altered. Their captivity had been grinding, but at least they had known what to expect. Now the great question loomed in their minds - what next?

Fingering the necklace of knuckle bones about his neck, a leering part orc swaggered up to Elffled and released her from the line. Then he turned to Elfhild, bringing his twisted face close to hers as he unbound her hands and unsnapped the chain from her collar.

"Wait - you forgot this!" Elfhild spat sarcastically, wincing as she gingerly brought a stiff arm upward to point at the band of iron. The day had been an abysmally wretched one in a long succession of miserable days, and her mood was foul. She was weary of being jostled and pushed, poked, prodded and pinched, and now this ugly beast with his revolting breath and snagged, rotten teeth was gawking at her!

"Forgot!" the orc jeered, his yellow eyes flashing. "Forgot nothing! If I took off yours, I'd have to take off the whole lot of them! The collar stays! Don't get high and mighty with me, slave slut! The collar shows who owns you - Mordor - with lease to the House of Esarhaddon uHuzziya. You should take pride that this illustrious House has the use of you."

"I cannot say that any of us are grateful!" Elfhild remarked in her most haughty voice.

Chortling gleefully, the orc looked her up and down, his upper lip curling disdainfully. "If you ain't grateful now, my pretty fine feathers, maybe you will be soon. What you been needin' is a good taste of orc honey shoved in that big mouth of yours to shut it up!" A deep laugh rumbling in his throat, he lunged for her.

"No!" Elfhild shrieked as she darted away, the orc right behind her. Watching helplessly, the other women screamed as the brute almost grabbed Elfhild. Even though the beast was huge, solid and well-built as a wall, his thick legs were still swift. He had almost caught up with her, when the sound of approaching hooves halted him. Reining in their horses, two of the slave-master's green-clad guards glared down at him.

"Galinâth!" exclaimed one of men as he flicked his slave flail at the orc. "You damned fool! Leave the wench alone! She is not for any of your folk, or mine!"

"Master," the orc bowed stiffly, the look of utter hatred and contempt barely hidden in his eyes, "I was just having a bit of fun with the wench! I never meant any harm!"

"Do this again, you damned idiot," the tawny, dark-eyed man growled, "and you will go back to the army, unhealed war wounds and metals be damned! Now go on with you and tend to your own duties!" He kept his scowling gaze leveled at the orc until with a small hiss, the creature inclined his head and lumbered away. Turning to look at Elfhild, the guard's attention slowly roamed downward, concentrating upon her breasts, lingering upon her hips, and traveling all the way to her feet. His dark eyes came back up and met her own and, smiling devilishly, he winked at her.

"Run along now, wench! I have no time to talk with you, but I shall be back later after the supper hour when all of you have been assembled together."

"T-thank you, sir!" Elfhild stammered shyly, curtsying out of respect and gratitude.

"Eat well, slave girl," the man laughed, and the guard with him grinned. "You need more meat to cover your skinny body!"

Touching their spurs to the horse's flanks, the two rode away at a trot in the direction where the tents and pavilions were being erected. Working quickly under the supervision of Esarhaddon's men, the half-breeds had hoisted up the slaver's great green, yellow and black pavilion, with a smaller tent nearby for Tushratta. At some distance from those tents, a campground had been prepared for the guards, wagon drivers, and other servants of the House of Huzziya. Another more colorful and elaborate pavilion had been raised for the pleasure women, who waited in their wains, chattering and giggling and laying wagers on who would be the first to visit them that night.

Elfhild watched as the horsemen rode away, and then it seemed as though her body lost all its strength. A shudder, both of dread and disgust, seized her and she trembled convulsively. After the fit had passed, she sighed heavily in relief. At least the orc had not forced a kiss upon her lips as had the men in the blacksmith's shop! Never had she been kissed by one of those foul beasts, and the thought of harsh, leathery lips upon hers and a thick, slimy tongue moving about in her mouth was enough to make her gag. She closed her eyes, trying to wipe away the impression of the foul brute.

"Elfhild!" her aunt cried as she rushed up with Elffled and Hunig following close behind. Hugging her elder niece to her bosom, Leofgifu clung to the girl almost desperately. "Thank goodness you are all right! We thought that monster would attack you!"

"Are you all right, Hilde?" Hunig asked, tugging on Elfhild's skirt.

Elfhild cast a glance down over her shoulder to her little cousin. "The orc did not hurt me... I was far too fast for him!" She laughed lightly, and when Hunig's worried face broke out into a grin, Elfhild smiled in pleasure.

"Elfhild!" Her aunt's displeased tone snapped Elfhild's attention back to her. "Your foolish prank brought you very close to danger, so do not brag about it!"

"But, Aunt," Elfhild protested, "the guards came just in time. Though they hate the men, most of the brutes seem to be afraid of them." She attempted to brush her aunt's fears away with a blithesome smile and a reassuring squeeze to her hand.

Elffled stood nearby, her arms folded across her chest, silently sulking. She was sick of her sister's brash antics. It seemed Elfhild was determined to get in trouble. Well, that was perfectly fine and jolly if Elfhild wished to get into quarrels with every soldier or guard, but more often than not she had an uncanny penchant for involving her poor twin. "At least I was nowhere around her this time," Elffled thought smugly.

"Please just stay out of their way," Leofgifu pleaded, her thin, square face pinched with frustration and worry. "Do not anger the orcs! You know full well how savage they can be!" Could her reckless niece not learn to temper her rage and resentment for their enemies? She felt like tearing her hair out in frustration. Did her niece ever listen? Leofgifu highly doubted it. She kept warning the girl, but her words kept falling on deaf ears. Sooner or later Elfhild would learn to keep her mouth shut, and Leofgifu feared it would not be from her admonitions and entreaties.

"At least there are fewer of the monsters now." Elfhild attempted to change the subject; perhaps her aunt would forget that she was displeased with her, and instead rail about the hated, loathsome orcs. At least she could hope so.

"Enough about them!" Leofgifu snapped, easily seeing through her niece's subtle ploy. "You should have learned after what happened in the blacksmith's shop today. Do not provoke fights with either man or orc! We are naught but chattel in their eyes, and they can do to us what they please - whether it be to punish or to kill." She feared for her headstrong niece's safety, for luck would not always be in her favor as it had been today. Losing its irritated edge, her voice grew more urgent as she spoke. "Elfhild, I beg you never to anger them again, for our days upon this journey may be the last ones we shall ever spend together. When we are sold as slaves in Nurn, we might be sundered from each other forever, our fates lying with different masters. We must make the most of the time we have yet remaining."

"No!" Elfhild whimpered, the tears springing up in her eyes at the reminder of that terrible truth. How she dreaded that day - so much so that she tried to pretend it would never come, that the journey would last forever and they would never arrive at their destination.

"Please do not speak so!" Elffled cried, clutching at her aunt's arm.

Hunig looked between the grown-ups, her large blue eyes filled with fear, her lips trembling. "Oh, let us not talk about bad things!"

"No," Leofgifu managed a wan smile, "we will think about that day when it comes."

After the initial shock of the destruction of their villages and their subsequent capture had passed, these horrible fears had slowly crept up upon all of the captives' minds. The present, even though it was miserable, offered far more security than did the future. If the women thought too much of the days to come, then they would have to consider the grief of separation from their children, kinswomen and friends. Nurn would be a place of great sorrow, even if they had the good fortune to be bought by compassionate owners.

When the captives had completed the evening meal, they were escorted to the latrine pits which the Gondorian slave men had dug earlier. While by order of the Southrons, the uruks had to turn their backs while the women answered nature's call, they were all lusty fellows with robust appetites. More than one of them felt the aching throb in his loins at the sound of the golden showers which fell like gentle rain. Though the whole business was humiliating, the captives had learned to endure. After relieving themselves, they were again formed into a line and taken to the area where they would make their beds on the ground that night. There they were ordered to stand in rows for assembly.

Riding up, two horsemen reined in their mounts between the two rows. Elfhild recognized them as the guards who had earlier saved her from embarrassment at the hands of the orc. Both were plain, ordinary looking fellows. The one who had talked to her earlier, a tawny, scowling fellow whose forehead was creased in a deep frown, had intense dark brown eyes which were further accented by the kohl which lined them. While he sported a thick black beard, his companion, a man in his forties, was clean-shaven except for a mustache. The setting sun glinted off the golden earring which adorned one of his large ears. As she looked at the two men, Elfhild wondered why she felt a twinge of disappointment that neither was the handsome, though insufferably arrogant, Esarhaddon uHuzziya. She chided herself for such an abhorrent thought, and made a silent promise never to think such a thing again.

"Attention!" the surly one commanded. "I want complete silence among you!"

The cowed captives would give him no argument at that. Hushing their offspring, the women waited for the Southron to speak.

"I am Ubri uMandum," the tawny-skinned man announced in accented Common Speech, "captain of the guards of Esarhaddon uHuzziya." The man's solemn brown eyes did more than hint that he was one who would countenance no disagreements. "I have a number of announcements." He looked up and down the line of captives. "The first is that tomorrow we shall reach the Anduin." He scowled when he heard the protesting murmur of the women. "Silence!" he grated out harshly and waited for the low din to die away. "We will camp tomorrow night by the river. You might be happy to know that before we cross the Anduin the next day, you will be allowed to bathe and wash your clothing in the shallows of the river. Sufficient quantities of olive oil will be provided to rid yourselves of the vermin that infest your hair."

Glancing at the women, Ubri read the reactions in their faces. Some looked at him blandly; others flushed with shame; a few did not bother to hide the hatred in their eyes. "In a few weeks' time, you will again be given the oil to destroy any of the nits that have hatched. While many of you might not be accustomed to cleanliness, we are a fastidious people, and we insist that our slaves adopt our customs." He waited until the women had fully digested his words before speaking again.

"There are more announcements... When the need for clothing arises, you will inform your guards of your needs. They will see that you draw garments from the supervisor of supplies. Many of you wear cloaks which are hot and stifling. After today, you will turn them in every morning." Some of the women turned to their fellow captives and grumbled. One shouted out, "You are not taking my cloak!"

"Silence! Be still, or I will have you whipped for such impertinence!" Ubri ordered, shaking the slave flail threateningly. "You will receive them back at night when you need them. We are going to a place where it can grow cold very quickly when darkness covers the land."

Many of the women nodded their heads up and down, relieved at what they considered a small concession. Some were plainly pleased at the thoughts of baths after so long. Almost a month had passed since they had last bathed, and the reek of their bodies was a constant insult to their nostrils. Others among the women were convinced that these acts of kindness were some kind of treachery. This man's pleasant words were designed to make them feel safer, so they would let down their guard. These devils were indeed sly, and they must be careful lest they be seduced by the wiles of the enemy!

Ubri went on. "Should you or your children become ill, let this matter be known to one of the slave boys. The physician Tushratta can attend to your ailments and injuries..."

Ubri's eyes rested somewhere above the women's heads as a slight flush covered his tawny face. "When the... sickness of women comes, you are to bring this situation to the attention of one of the slave boys. You need not be embarrassed, for they have no interest in women. They are all eunuchs whose male organs have been removed. A boy will take you to the tent of the Master's women, and those ladies can assist you." He cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed. "These are all the announcements, but you are to remain here, for the great Shakh wishes to speak with you. I bid you a pleasant evening."

With a relieved expression upon his face, Ubri turned to his companion, and the two of them quickly urged their horses into a trot. The women tried to keep their silence, but after such momentous announcements, they found they had to bite their tongues to keep from talking.

The captives waited nervously as darkness began to fall over the camp. Soon after the horsemen left, the captives saw torches approaching from the direction of the pavilions. Growing apprehensive as the figures drew closer, the women recognized the Southron slaver, accompanied by four of his bodyguard. Fearfully they remembered what he had said earlier, and each woman worried that he would choose her. As the men led the way with upraised torches, Esarhaddon strolled among the women, pausing from time to time to talk to one who caught his interest.

After he had inspected all of the captives, touching one woman's hair, one woman upon the cheek, another upon the breast, he pointed at Waerburh with his riding crop.

"You have been chosen to spend the night in my tent. Rejoice! Fate has smiled upon you!"

"No!" Waerburh screamed as two of Esarhaddon's guards clasped her by the shoulders and forced her away.

The slaver turned in a circle and gestured the crop towards Aeffe, a pretty girl with reddish blonde hair. "Though second in my choice, I do not find you less appealing than the other," Esarhaddon murmured seductively. "Your moon-shaped face is exquisite. Will you fight me, too?" He smiled, his hooded eyes raping her body.

"No, my lord." Aeffe looked down demurely. "What good would it do me?"

"None, my little beauty." He lifted up her chin with the tip of his riding crop until he was looking into her eyes. "None at all."

Esarhaddon thoughtfully considered the remaining women, stroking his beard before resting his chin on his hand. "You!" He turned a quarter circle and the riding crop pointed in the direction of a young woman named Frithuswith. "With your pale face framed by your luxuriant blonde hair, you are like a pearl in an encasing of gold."

"No!" the girl shrieked. "I will not go with you!"

Two more guards stepped up, and, placing their hands upon her shoulders, they dragged the trembling girl away.

"Fortune's choice has been made," Esarhaddon announced dramatically, "but the rest of you should not lose heart! The journey is long and there will be many other evenings when I crave to have beauty with me. Then I will call the fortune-favored ones to grace my tent, and perhaps warm my bed. I bid you all pleasant sleep. Come, lovely one," he looked to Aeffe, "follow three paces behind me as is proper for a woman to do." Smiling, the slaver took his leave of the horrified captives.


End file.
